


An Act of Defiance

by insertsomethingwitty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angel!Grantaire, Artist Grantaire, Background Éposette, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, The Iliad References, Wuthering Heights References, background Jehanparnasse, background courfius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertsomethingwitty/pseuds/insertsomethingwitty
Summary: Everyone has a guardian angel. Except for Enjolras.Grantaire was a guardian angel. Until he quit.Les Amis are fighting for the rights of people without angels; the Forgotten. If only they knew that they had an angel among them--or that their leader was himself Forgotten.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first fic, EVER! look at me go
> 
> shoutout to everyone who made this possible--I couldn't have done it alone! I hope you like it!
> 
> (title from "june" by florence and the machine)

There isn’t much humanity knows about the guardian angels. Why they exist; why they help humans. What, exactly, they are. Where they come from and what happens to them and why, why, why.

Humans know that the angels have always been here, as long as they have. They know that every human has something watching over them that protects them from harm until their time comes.

They know that sometimes, the angels leave in droves—those times are marked in humanity’s history as periods of great wars, misfortune, and bloodshed. Why the angels left in these times is unknown, only speculated. Maybe the angels are at war themselves and cannot expend the resources to guiding humanity; maybe they are playing a game on a scale humanity can hardly imagine, and this is all part of it. Nonetheless, these dark times without angels have proven to humanity that they cannot live without them. For better or worse, humanity relies on the angels and the peace they bring with them. Most humans can’t imagine a world without their angel.

Enjolras isn’t most humans. His entrance into the world was hard and laborious—a sure sign to everyone in the delivery room that this child was Forgotten. His angel had abandoned him before he was born and he was doomed to a life of hardship and misery. The name Enjolras was a desperate attempt at a blessing—Enj, pronounced like _ange_ ; angel in French.

Even in times of peace, there are the Forgotten. They’re numbers skyrocket when angels abandon their posts, but there are always those who’ve slipped through the cracks. People speculate that perhaps the Forgotten are just a result of missed bureaucracy—or more darkly, that they’re doomed to choose evil and their angel doesn’t want to fall with them.

Enjolras doesn’t know or care why he doesn’t have an angel. He used to—he’d cry over the toilet with his third bout of food poisoning that month, wonder what he did to deserve all the bruises and broken bones and life-threatening events that followed him like a curse. But as he grew older, he grew tougher. Living in a world where the population has divine beings on their shoulders has certain problems when you _don’t_ have one. He’s had to learn when food has gone bad on his own, because there are few regulations on it when the average person has an angel to tell them when it’s going to be harmful. He learned how to fight—to defend himself when people considered him a bad omen to be corrected. 

Now that he’s grown up, it’s not so obvious that he’s Forgotten anymore. He couldn’t hide it when he was younger, for all the obvious mistakes he made that any half decent guardian would have stopped. But now, he knows better. He doesn’t need an angel to tell him how to live. He doesn’t _want_ an angel to tell him what to do. He’s fine on his own.

Things got easier as he met his friends. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have never cared that Enjolras was Forgotten, even when they got shit from their classmates for hanging around with someone “cursed”. They’re his only friends who know he’s Forgotten. Enjolras started keeping it to himself. He started Les Amis to fight for Forgotten rights, while no one knows how very personal the issue is for him.

That’s where Enjolras is headed now. Les Amis hold their weekly meetings in the backroom at the Musain and Enjolras wants to be early for this one. It’s chilly; he grips his cup of coffee tight to his chest to try and stave off the cold. Enjolras doesn’t have his notes meticulously prepared, like usual. Something’s happened that Les Amis are going to need to talk about.

He arrived at the Musain and went inside, taking off his coat to greetings from Combeferre and Joly.

They make small talk while the others trickle in, Enjolras’ leg bouncing with anticipation. Eventually everyone’s there, sitting at the tables scattered around the room—even Grantaire, who slunk in late and sat in the back with Jehan. Enjolras’ eyes had followed him unwillingly. Grantaire had looked up and done a two-fingered salute in Enjolras’ direction when he caught him glaring. Enjolras had looked away, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Enjolras tried not to be aware of Grantaire as he got up to start the meeting, but he was hard pressed. Today’s meeting was on a sensitive subject and he was both anxious to hear what Grantaire had to say on it and dreading it. Grantaire’s most controversial opinions were about this and Enjolras still didn’t know how to feel about some of them.

Enjolras stands up and the room immediately falls silent before him. He faces his friends.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the news—Larmarque has come out as one of the Forgotten. I think it should be obvious that this is huge for us—someone of his status coming out and admitting that he doesn’t have an angel has been making waves since it happened. What I want to talk about today is how exactly this is going to change the course that Les Amis are on, what this means for the future of the Forgotten, and if there’s anything we can do to support him, and any other Forgotten who choose to come forward after this.”

The impact of someone like Lamarque being open about this goes against every stereotype and stigma about Forgotten—that they can’t be successful, they can’t have careers or lives, they can’t make any positive impact on the world, only negative. He’s been a highly influential actor for years who has spoken out on activist issues a number of times. He’s done more charity work than any other actor of his age. Enjolras feels emotions flying up his throat whenever he thinks about how much progress this could inspire.

“There’s already been a huge amount of backlash against Lamarque, calling him a liar and a cheat and overall just questioning every part of his life,” Combeferre speaks up, glancing at his computer screen. “The media, and of course people on social media, are not pulling their punches. They’re citing ‘evidence’”—Combeferre mimics the quotation marks with his hands—”from his past mistakes and mishaps to prove why he should never have succeeded. Nonetheless, for every bad comment there’s a smaller amount in support of Lamarque and quite a few people who are just plain confused. I think we could really jump in here and if we have an event big enough, maybe we could get Lamarque himself involved, and we can possibly sway some of these people who don’t know what to believe about the Forgotten. There’s a lot of misinformation out there and not a lot of people are willing to listen to something else. This might be an opportunity for those undecided to learn more. We just have to make sure they can access the right information, instead of the fear mongering that’s out there.”

“I’ll make sure the website is all up to date—we should have a piece on there about Lamarque and really make sure our FAQ is accurate and accessible.” Feuilly pipes in.

Enjolras nods. “Great points, you two. I’m sure the site is fine, but it’s smart to revamp it anyway. We’ll be getting more traffic.”

Enjolras feels satisfaction settling into his stomach as he watches the meeting unfold. _This_ is why Enjolras started Les Amis. He feels like he’s watching progress in action and it feels great.

Grantaire doesn’t remember much about being an angel.

Sure, he remembers his humans—the only part of the job that didn’t suck—and he remembers the wars well enough for something he wants to forget. But the day to day, the angels he knew, the specifics—those are hazy.

He rarely thinks about it these days. Since he abandoned his post and came down to Earth to pose as human, he hasn’t looked back.

He does remember his first moments on Earth, overwhelming and vibrant and full of the life he’d been denied for centuries.

However, what he does and doesn’t remember about divinity doesn’t really matter right now. What matters is that he’s late for the meeting at the Musain. He might enjoy pushing Enjolras’ buttons, but he’s not keen on starting off the night with a pointless fight.

He’d gotten distracted on his way there by some graffiti that he just had to fix. It was pretty tacky—Lamarque’s face with a giant X over it.

Grantaire had some paint in his backpack—always good to have on you, in case of times like this—so he’d taken it out and got to work. Fifteen minutes later, all defining features of Lamarque were gone, replaced with angel iconography. A halo, some cartoonish wings. An indistinct face, because representations of angels rarely had faces, though no one really knows why. Grantaire doesn’t really care except to make the message of his art clear. Instead of anti-Forgotten, now it was anti-angel. Grantaire had grinned as he snapped a photo. Much better.

He strolled in late to the meeting only to meet a glare from Enjolras. Could have been worse.

Grantaire supposes he deserves it. His unique position as an ex-angel is not exactly something he shares with the humans he spends his time with—as a result, his controversial views on the role of the angels in humanity aren’t exactly easy to swallow. No one knows that what he says comes from a deeply personal and lived experience. They just assume he’s a pessimist and an asshole. Which, whose to say those aren’t also true?

Nonetheless, Grantaire likes coming to these meetings. Whether or not he thinks they can achieve anything, he likes the air of optimism and youth. It’s nice to think that this group of college students can change institutions that are millennia old, even if it is just a pipe dream.

He watches from the back as they discuss their next steps after Lamarque’s shocking announcement. It took Grantaire off guard, to be honest. He’s been hanging around on Earth for long enough to know that those who are able to succeed without angels keep quiet about it.

He wonders if maybe this could be it. If Les Amis can change the humans, change their perception of the guardian angels, for real. Lamarque is a first here and Grantaire has learned over the past two years not to underestimate Enjolras.

Of course, change the humans all they want. The angels, Grantaire knows, will never change.

He tunes back into the conversation. Les Amis are planning a demonstration in support of Lamarque—and all Forgotten—to try and raise awareness. The only thing being Forgotten means is that there isn’t an angel on your shoulder telling you what to do—it means nothing about your character, your fate, or anything else the crazy religious fanatics want to believe.

Grantaire knows more than anyone that it’s all bullshit. People are not Forgotten on purpose—they’re accidents, paperwork that slipped through the cracks. The Forgotten are stronger than humans with angels, in Grantaire’s opinion. He just hopes humanity can learn that they’re better off on their own. He didn’t really believe that could actually happen—but then, Enjolras.

Jehan is talking about a performance. An open mic, he’s saying.

“We’d need more than just that if this was going to do anything, but I think that’s a good start, Jehan,” Enjolras says. He turns away before he can see Jehan deflate next to Grantaire. Enjolras tries to move on to other things but Grantaire interrupts him.

“I think an open mic could be really effective. Maybe Bossuet could do some stand-up about his many mishaps. Jehan could do some spoken word—his poetry could change the world by itself, you know. Sure, do some more educational stuff too, but a performance would actually get people out of their homes.” Grantaire stops when he realizes everyone is staring at him. Enjolras especially is looking at him with a particular intensity that he’s having trouble interpreting.

Courfeyrac hesitantly responds, “I agree, a performance would be a perfect focal point. Maybe we can get some bigger talent as well—a nice mix of famous people and regular people. Show that the Forgotten really _can_ be anyone.”

The conversation goes on, discussing more ideas on what kind of things they can have in the performance. Jehan, after Grantaire defended him, jumps back in the conversation with a gusto and makes up for Enjolras, who’s being unusually quiet. When he does eventually join the conversation again, it’s to offer logistics to the creative ideas the others are having. He keeps looking back at Grantaire, though.

Grantaire figures he’s participated enough and is content to sit quietly for the rest of the meeting as they hammer out some initial plans to get a venue and contact possible speakers— namely, Lamarque himself.

While of course Grantaire has his doubts, he thinks this will definitely be one of the more entertaining events Les Amis have planned. Protests are all well and good, but a concert…now that’ll be fun.

It’s the first day of classes and Grantaire slouches into a seat in the back of the lecture hall. He’s early, so he can have his pick of seats for the semester. There are only a few other students milling around and chatting, catching up after the winter break.

He’s excited for this course: Guardian Angels in Literature. It won’t count towards his Art History major, but there was no way he wasn’t going to take this one.

He pulled out his notebook to “take notes”—more to doodle, quite frankly. He’s been through college a few times already, stacking up the degrees. He’s not really fussed about his grades when this is the third Art History degree he’s gotten, so—shoddy notetaking.

When he came down to Earth, he didn’t really have a plan for what to do next, just that he had to lay low. He didn’t want to find out what the punishment would be if the angels caught him. In college, he could stay under the radar, with all his weirdness easily explained away. But it’s really more of an excuse for him to learn more about humanity, an endlessly fascinating subject—both in the classroom and in the people he met there. It’s like college attracts people determined to be eclectic. Besides, as much as humanity has its problems, he thinks they got a few things right. Namely, art and literature. He enjoys being able to study them as much as he wants, for as long as he wants. 

He draws a rough sketch of the room before him, pencilling in the students trickling in before the lecture starts. He starts adding little angels and demons to each of their shoulders, picturing them in crazy positions as they silently bicker at their human charge.

He’s focusing on getting the detail right on a tiny demon setting off fireworks in the direction of his angel when he hears someone clearing their throat.

He looks up to see most of the seats filled—except the one beside him. Enjolras is standing there, shuffling his feet.

Grantaire stares at him, trying not to gape but surely failing. “Hello?”

“Can I sit there?”

Grantaire realizes his bag and coat are on the seat next to him and quickly moves them to the floor at his feet. “What—What are you doing here? I thought you were a Law student. Didn’t you say the arts were a waste of time?” Grantaire stops his rambling in its tracks at Enjolras’ resulting frown.

“Did I really say that?”

“Well, no, but you implied it. With your disdain about my Art History degree. I could feel it,” Grantaire insists, ignoring the obvious fact that it was more likely about _him_ than the program.

Enjolras purses his lips. “Well, I didn’t exactly plan on being here. My fifth class was cancelled when the professor was fired out of the blue and they couldn’t get anyone to cover it. This was the only open class that would fit in my schedule and I need the credit to graduate on time.” Enjolras pauses and screws his face up into a grimace. “I’m not…. happy about it.”

“That makes one of us. I’ve read a few things on the syllabus already and it’s gonna be great, I think. Maybe you’ll even learn something.” Grantaire twirls his pen and watches Enjolras pull out his well-loved laptop.

“Maybe.”

Grantaire—and now Enjolras—sits in the back. He likes being able to see what everyone is doing. Maybe it’s a habit leftover from being an ever-vigilant guardian angel on the lookout for threats; or maybe it’s just his obsession with humanity. He wouldn’t have expected Enjolras to sit in the back with him, if he’d expected to ever find himself in Enjolras’ classes. If he’d expected Enjolras to want to sit with him even if they were in the same class.

Enjolras’ lack of interest in art is the one thing Grantaire finds hard to like about him. Grantaire doesn’t begrudge him—he more than makes up for it with his breathtaking passion for change. Though he would love to be able to talk about art with Enjolras. Grantaire is sure Enjolras would have some opinions worth debating, and there is nothing Grantaire likes more than debating with Enjolras.

When he was an angel, he never got to debate with anyone. It was all following orders and doing the right thing. Grantaire much prefers Earth, where he can get drunk and drag Combeferre into a long-winded and convoluted argument about philosophy for the hell of it.

The lecture starts—mostly just going over the syllabus and expectations for the course. Grantaire wasn’t kidding about being excited—the Iliad, Wuthering Heights, Shakespeare. All focused on the portrayal and role of guardian angels within the text.

He always feels a little sheepish in lectures about angels. The humans know so little about the angels that it’s a constant stream of questions without answers—answers Grantaire has. Yet he just sits in the back and says nothing. 

The lecture, boring as it is, is not enough to distract him from Enjolras. Watching Enjolras without being noticed is an artform and Grantaire is the master after years of practice. 

His brow is furrowed as he glares down at the professor. If Grantaire didn’t know better, he might think that Enjolras is worried.

How would Enjolras react if Grantaire offered to tutor him? Grantaire assumes that Enjolras won’t like the suggestion, but if his growing frown is any indication, he might just be desperate enough to accept.

Grantaire imagines it. Study sessions with Enjolras, maybe at Grantaire’s apartment, starting the night out a modest foot apart and slowly creeping closer as the night wears on…. Yeah. Fat chance. 

He’s so caught up in the fantasy that he doesn’t realize Enjolras has caught him staring. He feels the eyes on him and looks up. The lecture ended without him noticing and people are filing out. Enjolras is standing beside him, his bag slung over his shoulder and his coat zipped all the way up. Is he… waiting for Grantaire?

“Think you’ll survive?” Grantaire says, ducking his head into his bag to make room for his notebook. Not to avoid looking at Enjolras.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, so Grantaire shoves his notebook in, ignoring the crumpling, and stands up. Grantaire stops short as this puts them closer than is socially acceptable. He notes that he’s taller than Enjolras, just enough to be noticeable. Grantaire should move. They’re just standing there staring at each other. Then Enjolras speaks.

“Yeah, I think I will. See you later, Grantaire.”

Enjolras turns and leaves and Grantaire is left dazed.

It seems like Grantaire should be more worried about himself, apparently.

Enjolras leaves the lecture feeling out of sorts. Unsurprising, considering the day he’s had. He’d spent an hour in the registration office that morning trying to figure out what he could take to be able to still graduate on time. The only course being an English elective that had no pre-requisites, naturally. Enjolras knew this was going to bring down his GPA and it had put him in a rotten mood.

Entering the full lecture hall barely on time to find Grantaire next to one of the few empty seats could have been worse. Enjolras isn’t too ashamed to admit he has some concerns about this class. He knew he was terrible at looking for symbolism—he wants things to be obvious and he wants there to be a clear answer. All this debate for debate’s sake drives him crazy. When he saw Grantaire, it didn’t matter that it was him—only that he was a familiar face.

Grantaire is good at this kind of thing—at parsing convoluted sentences and finding significance where Enjolras thought there wasn’t any. Maybe he’ll be a valuable study partner, if anything.

As the lecture went on, Enjolras’ dread grew. He didn’t have time to read all these novels and keep up with the assignments on top of his other courses. What kind of elective has this much work?

He supposes the concept is intriguing. And maybe Grantaire will be less insufferable in his home territory than he is at the Musain. Enjolras likes Grantaire best when he talks about art—and literature is sort of art, right?

When the lecture ended and Grantaire was staring at him as if in a dream, Enjolras didn’t know what to say—"can’t wait for the next lecture”? “I think this class is going to give me an aneurism”? “Please for the love of god help me pass this class”?

No. He stayed silent and watched Grantaire watch him. Something happened in the pit of his stomach that made him think maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, with Grantaire. A deep relief that he wouldn’t be going through this class alone, maybe.

It has nothing to do with the way he became acutely aware of how infrequently he said Grantaire’s name. Surely. 

Plans for the fundraiser were well on their way. Enjolras, despite his misgivings about the idea, has given in to the inherent democracy of Les Amis and let it happen. Grantaire was right—this would bring in more of an audience. Raising money for Forgotten charities was good, and this would make an easy way to hopefully get some pro-Forgotten celebrities to join in.

Enjolras wishes it could be something more in his comfort zone—like a protest, where he could give an impassioned speech and channel all his righteous anger. He supposes he can still do that, it’s just …harder for him to imagine.

They contacted Lamarque and got him on board with the fundraiser—they’ve even picked a date based on when he was available, considering the whole idea hinges on him. It’ll be at the end of the semester. They didn’t want to wait too long and miss out on the press generated by Lamarque’s announcement, but they have big plans for it and those take time. So, three months from now. Too much time and nowhere near enough. It’ll have to do.

Things are going well. It’s been good to have a goal to work towards for Les Amis. Meetings are a flurry of productivity. Every week they make more progress and Enjolras enjoys being able to go to sleep knowing that he’s working towards making the world a better place for people like him.

Like he said, things are going well… except for one thing. Enjolras has always been at the top of his classes—a combination of his natural intelligence and relentless work ethic. But this English course has been dragging down his grades and his mood. He could still drop it, technically. But then he’d have to take another semester to be able to finish his degree on time and he _really_ didn’t want to have to do that. So, he’s stuck.

He’s in the library, trying and failing to get through a paper on the Iliad. He glares at the prompt, reading it for the tenth time:

Discuss the way that the presence of guardian angels as gods, who have their own personalities and desires, rather than individualized invisible helpers, changes the function of them in comparison with more modern depictions of angels.

He has no idea what to say about that. Enjolras never has trouble with words—but for some reason, this class is making him speechless.

He stares at his notes, full of question marks and crossed out sentences. The paper is due at the end of the week and he still doesn’t know where to even _begin_ drafting it. Once he has a plan, he knows the paper will come easily. Enjolras can argue his side and argue it well. But it’s hard to be convincing when he doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove.

Enjolras sighed, sitting back. He should head home soon. He’d come to the library hours ago and said he wasn’t going to leave until he had a first draft of this paper. Unfortunately, stubbornness alone isn’t enough to make a paper appear out of thin air.

At this hour, there aren’t many people around so Enjolras spots Grantaire when he walks into the library immediately. Relief floods through Enjolras. Maybe Grantaire is also having trouble with the paper.

Grantaire hasn’t seen him yet. Enjolras waves, hoping to catch his attention without having to shout in the library. It may be almost deserted, but there are enough people that he’s not going to be the asshole making noise. Grantaire notices Enjolras waving at him, then looks behind him. When he sees no one, Grantaire looks back at Enjolras with furrowed brows. Enjolras makes a “come here” gesture. Grantaire gestures at himself, as if asking “me?”

Enjolras, exasperated, nods. Grantaire starts moving towards him.

“Hey, Apollo. Bit late for a study session, don’t you think?” Grantaire has his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It’s green, with lots of pockets. There are flecks of paint all over it, and a selection of buttons.

“I’ve been trying to write this paper for hours,” Enjolras shows him the evidence—his messy notes, the empty coffee cups. There should be crumpled up pieces of paper to complete the picture of writer’s block. “Also, don’t call me that.”

Grantaire sits. “Isn’t that due like, a week from now?”

“It’s called time management. You should try it sometime.” That sounded less malicious in Enjolras’ head.

“I don’t know, chugging an energy drink and pulling an all-nighter the day before it’s due has worked so far. I think I’ll stick with my method.” Grantaire’s lips turn up at one end. _Bite me_ —a button on Grantaire’s coat.

“I take it you haven’t started, then?”

“I’ve got a few ideas. But no, not really.” Grantaire shrugs, then hesitates for a moment. “Do you… want some help?”

Enjolras stares. Help? That didn’t even occur to him. Enjolras has always done things on his own. Without an angel, he had to.

“I mean, obviously you don’t need my help. I just thought since this is kind of my thing and—” Grantaire starts. Enjolras knows from experience that this could go on indefinitely if he doesn’t stop him, and that shakes him back to the present.

“No, no it just caught me off guard. I could really use the help, actually. Thanks.” Enjolras bites his lip. Grantaire’s eyes flick to the movement and he grins.

“Anytime, Apollo.” Grantaire looks at his phone. “Just not right now. I’ve got a shift at the bar. Are you around tomorrow after class? I know you probably want to get it over with sooner rather than later.”

“Uh, yeah. See you then, I guess?” Enjolras can’t help but say it as a question. He doesn’t think he’s ever made plans with Grantaire before.

Grantaire’s smile is contagious. “See you then, Enjolras. Get some sleep, okay? You’d be surprised at the literary value of a good dream.” With that nonsensical statement, Grantaire leaves.

Enjolras watches him go before cleaning up the mess he’s made of the library table.

Being human is a lot for Grantaire. His physical form was almost irrelevant when he was an angel—but here, as human as he can get, his experience _lives_ in the body. Even after decades of being on Earth, Grantaire still finds himself overwhelmed by sensations sometimes.

He feels that now as he lies down on the couch after his shift at the bar. He works there for the money and the people—he likes it, really, but sometimes it’s just plain exhausting. Grantaire’s need for rest is inconsistent—sometimes he can go days without sleeping, and other times he’s dead on his feet for seemingly no reason. Today, he knows he’s gonna be sleeping until his class at midday tomorrow. And then he’s going to help Enjolras write a paper. Sure.

Grantaire doesn’t know what possessed him. He wanted to think that he’s gotten rid of that trained response to help, help, help—even when his human charges didn’t need it, he helped them anyways. That was his job. But, he’d never asked when he was angel. He couldn’t have. Maybe that makes this time different.

Of course, that’s ignoring the obvious answer: Grantaire did what he did because it was Enjolras, and Grantaire always makes bad choices when he’s involved. But Grantaire wants to pretend he’s better than that.

Ultimately, who cares about Grantaire’s decisions—why the hell did Enjolras accept? He must really be desperate. Grantaire can’t help his smile when he remembers how flustered Enjolras was. He doesn’t have any experience with an unsure Enjolras. It’s even more endearing than Grantaire would have thought it would be. Not that Grantaire _has_ thought about it. The Enjolras in Grantaire’s mind is generally cold and uninterested—or intense and passionate. Never uncertain and certainly not inexperienced.

Grantaire sighs and lolls his head back. He should get up and go to his bed—he loves his bed, it was worth leaving the angels just to be able to sleep in a _bed_ , he could write sonnets about his bed. Just a few more seconds and he’ll get up…

Grantaire doesn’t know how much time has passed when a crash wakes him up.

“Shit, sorry, sorry!” Jehan’s voice comes from the kitchen—Grantaire is covered in a blanket that wasn’t there a moment ago. He rubs his eyes.

“What happened?”

Jehan peaks his head out. “I broke a glass. Sorry for waking you. I got it; you can go back to sleep.”

Grantaire ignores Jehan and gets up, stretching his back until it pops satisfyingly. He grabs the broom from the hall closet and shoos Jehan away from picking up the bigger pieces. Jehan protests, but Grantaire waves him off and starts to gather it into a pile.

He pauses to yawn then sweeps the broken glass into the dustpan. “What time is it?”

“About four.” So, he’d only slept for a bit, then. “How was your night?”

Grantaire dumped the glass into the garbage and made a face. “Weird. Why are you up?”

“What do you mean, weird? And I was writing.” Jehan moves to the cupboard to grab a second glass. He must be distracted if he’s dropping stuff—his angel would have said something, but he must’ve ignored the warning.

Grantaire is tempted to give Jehan a hard time about his sleep schedule, but he knows he’ll just go on about taking inspiration when it hits. Besides, it’s not like Grantaire’s schedule is any better—that’s kind of why Grantaire lives with Jehan. Grantaire isn’t going to stand out as strange when he’s next to Jehan.

Besides, he’s great company. Could do more dishes, but Grantaire can forgive that.

“Well, I ran into Enjolras.” Jehan, having filled his cup in the sink, turns to face Grantaire and raises an eyebrow. Grantaire sighs. “I know. He was at the library. He was trying to write a paper for that English class I told you about? He seemed like he was having a hard time wrapping his head around it, so I offered to help him with it. He said yes?”

It sounds ridiculous, as he says it. Jehan’s second eyebrow joins the first.

“Sounds like the perfect opportunity to make your move. Seduce him with your knowledge of English literature.” Jehan wiggles his shoulders. Grantaire shoves him.

“Or I could just tell him where to start and then watch as he writes a masterpiece of an English paper right in front of me. Then I’ll be so intimidated that I’ll never write mine and I’ll fail the class while he passes with flying colours. And then he’ll get an amazing boyfriend who’s better than me at English and they’ll have perfect English major children together.”

Jehan just stares at him.

“I don’t want to seduce him anyways.” Grantaire knows this argument is futile, especially to Jehan, who knows better than anyone how untrue that is. His pride needs to say it, though.

Jehan kindly doesn’t argue. “Well, either way—good luck with that. I’m going to try and get a few more lines down before going to bed.” Jehan squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder on his way by and disappears back into his room.

In the kitchen, Grantaire ponders the problem of Enjolras. Grantaire had been close with humans in the past, in all manners. He’d wanted to see everything that humanity had to offer, after all, and that included friendship, romance, and sex. But when Grantaire met Enjolras, it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

When Grantaire met Enjolras, it was like he became more human than angel. There was something special about Enjolras, something that felt like a cord deep in Grantaire’s belly pulling him towards him. Grantaire had been attending a protest for Forgotten rights—he liked to keep an eye on angel-related politics while he was down here. Enjolras had been speaking and the image of him on stage, yelling passionately at a crowd with his blond hair in a halo around his head…. he looked more like an angel than Grantaire ever had. Grantaire knew immediately what he was doing for the foreseeable future. He enrolled at the university where the protest was taking place the next day.

Grantaire hadn’t believed in anything for so long. Enjolras believed in everything. It’s only natural that Grantaire is drawn to Enjolras’ flame, when he’s been in the dark so long.

Grantaire sighs again. Whatever Enjolras was to Grantaire, he needs to get some sleep. He wants to be well rested for their study date.

Grantaire ended up being late to his class the next day. It was the angel course with Enjolras—the professor had already started by the time Grantaire snuck in the back. Enjolras was there in his usual spot, glaring at the front of the room like he does every week. Grantaire knows, because they’ve sat together every lecture since the first one. Grantaire, perpetually late, walks into each class expecting Enjolras to be sitting somewhere else, or to find someone in his spot because why would Enjolras stop someone from sitting there? But that hasn’t happened yet, and today is no exception.

Grantaire taps Enjolras shoulder from behind and gestured to the seat next to him. His bag is on it. Like he’s saving it for Grantaire.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want people sitting next to him.

Either way, Enjolras quietly moves the stuff without complaint and Grantaire slumps into the chair.

The lecture is a good one. It’s their final lecture on The Iliad before they move onto other topics. Almost enough to keep Grantaire distracted from what is surely going to be a train wreck.

Since the first lecture, Enjolras has waited after the lecture to make small talk with Grantaire—cautiously, avoiding anything that could cause an argument. Grantaire is willing to talk to Enjolras about his grocery list, and since Enjolras is so clearly trying to play nice, Grantaire doesn’t needle him. Much.

Still, when the lecture ends and Grantaire stands to go, it’s weird to walk out with Enjolras. Like they’re friends. 

They go to coffee shop on campus and settle down to work in the back corner, out of the way. Grantaire gets a sugary-not-really-coffee beverage, while Enjolras gets black coffee. It’s not very busy, but there are enough people hanging out or studying that there’s a comforting background chatter.

Grantaire waits, holding his coffee cup with both hands, as Enjolras pulls out his notes for the paper.

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. I’m not sure the caffeine is really worth it.”

“It’s practical.” Enjolras puts his notebook down.

“No, no, no. I won’t accept that. Taste this and tell me it’s not infinitely better than black coffee.” He offers Enjolras his drink.

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Enjolras to take the cup from him and take a curious sip. He licks his lips, then takes another, deeper sip.

“Hey, don’t drink it all! That cost seven dollars!” Grantaire tries to take it back and Enjolras dodges.

“No way, this is mine now. This is basically a milkshake. Is there even any coffee in this?” Enjolras laughs as Grantaire half-heartedly continues to try and grab it back.

“This is the thanks I get for helping you out? Come on.”

Enjolras takes one more small sip and gives it back to Grantaire. When Grantaire moves to take it, Enjolras grabs his hand and looks him in the eye.

“Thanks, seriously. For the coffee and for your help.” Grantaire sucks in a breath.

“Anytime, Enjolras. Seriously.”

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Enjolras seems to realize they’re semi-holding hands and moves back. Grantaire hides his hands under the table. He can’t keep his wits about him if _that_ could happen at any moment without warning.

Enjolras flips open his notebook. Grantaire leans over to look at it and sees a lot of scribbled, half-finished notes and things crossed out. Enjolras’ handwriting is sharp.

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Do you have anything? Even something you liked and want to look at more?”

“The relationship between Achilles and Patroclus was the best part. But that doesn’t have anything to do with guardian angels.” Enjolras frowns.

Grantaire considers that. “I mean, it could. Like we talked about in class the other day, guardian angels were less defined than they are today. So, it’s unclear if the gods—specifically Zeus—are symbolic of Achilles’ angel. They help him just as much as they hurt him, right? So maybe you could talk about that.” 

“As in, if the gods _are_ supposed to be a metaphor, or whatever, for guardian angels, then the fact that they do such a shitty job of helping Achilles says something about the way the Greeks viewed the angels?” Enjolras grimaces at the convoluted sentence and Grantaire grins.

“Sounds like you’ve got a working thesis, Apollo. Maybe be clearer about _what_ the Greeks thought about angels, but it’s a start. Good thing our prof seems to be open to some criticisms of the angel system, cause it seems like you might have a controversial paper.”

It’s easier, from then. Grantaire helps Enjolras find some quotes for his argument and refine his thesis a little. Enjolras seems infinitely more comfortable here—with an idea and a way to approach it. He does seem impressed with how fast Grantaire can find a specific passage in the Iliad. Grantaire just shrugs because he can’t exactly say he’s been following the story since it first started being told. The Greeks may have worshipped the angels, but they did so with a more nuanced understanding of them. They were fallible gods with their own desires and goals—rather than the modern blind belief that the angels have humanity’s best interest in mind.

Grantaire is even able to ignore their knees pressed together after a while.

Once Enjolras has his outline, he doesn’t seem inclined to leave. He doesn’t have anything else for the rest of the day, he says. Might as well work on this while the inspiration is there. Grantaire waits for Enjolras to tell him to leave, but he doesn’t.

So Enjolras works on his paper, and Grantaire gets more coffee. He can’t stop thinking about Achilles. The current perception of angels is that they exist to help and protect humanity. But the gods don’t care about Achilles; he is just a pawn in their game. And while Grantaire wants to say that’s accurate of the angels, it doesn’t entirely fit.

Achilles, Forgotten. That’s possible. The Greeks didn’t call it that—they preferred _cursed_ , but the idea is the same.

Grantaire sips his sugary drink—he bought a second one for Enjolras, who accepts it without argument and a quick thanks before getting back to his paper.

Who takes care of Achilles? Who protects him from harm?

Grantaire thinks of Patroclus. Patroclus, who cleans up Achilles’ wounds and armor. Who counsels him to let go of his grudge, not for the army but for Achilles himself. Who takes the matter into his own hands when Achilles refuses to listen to reason and dies trying to help. Who cares about Achilles more than the gods ever did.

That’s what a guardian angel should be. Who says it has to be supernatural?

Grantaire thinks he has his essay topic. He sips his coffee and notices Enjolras sticking his tongue out slightly as he concentrates. His hair is golden, like the sun. He thinks about the first time he saw Enjolras—angry and passionate at a rally.

_The rage of Achilles…_

Grantaire roll his eyes at himself. Does that make him Patroclus?

No. Achilles _liked_ Patroclus. Grantaire really needs to stop reading so much into things.

Hours later, Enjolras has a paper. It’s not finished by any means, but he has a draft. He is officially back in familiar territory—argue a thesis, edit the prose, cite evidence.

He leans back in his chair, stretching out the stiffness from sitting in the same position for so long. Grantaire had pulled out his own notebook a while ago and they’d worked in an easy silence. Enjolras feels a warmth spread through his body at the realization that he’s spent hours with Grantaire without getting in a fight. It’s nice, he thinks. They should do this more often.

Enjolras is starting to realize that he hasn’t eaten since before class. He’s only had the sugary “coffee” that Grantaire shared with him. He has a tendency to forget to eat, especially without an angel to remind him. 

As if it heard his thoughts, Enjolras’ stomach growls obnoxiously. Grantaire looks up at the sound, a slight smile on his face.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah—wanna get dinner?” Enjolras doesn’t know if Grantaire knows how much of a big favour he’s done Enjolras. He suspects not, with how easily Grantaire got him to a thesis. Maybe if Enjolras buys him dinner, he’ll figure out how grateful he is. Grantaire may have only asked Enjolras a few pointed questions, given encouragement when needed—but Enjolras knows he would have sat with no ideas until the deadline came and went. He wants to repay the kindness Grantaire has shown him.

At least, that’s how Enjolras rationalizes it to himself. He dismisses the feeling that he just wants to spend more time with Grantaire.

Grantaire looks surprised, but says yes anyways.

“Great.” Enjolras grins at him.

They decide on a family restaurant a few blocks away from campus. The walk there is filled with Grantaire passionately defending the Iliad from Enjolras scathing review that it was “boring” and “why are we still studying something so old anyways”.

Grantaire eventually picks up on Enjolras’ ploy after a five-minute rant about the timelessness of Homer and the human condition and how _amazing_ it is to be able to relate to people from _so long ago_ and _Enjolras_ are you even _listening_ —

“I’m listening. Eternally relatable, yes.” Enjolras is clearly biting down on a smile. Grantaire doesn’t know what to do being on the other side of the teasing, so he shoves him.

“You know I’m right, you asshole. Homer’s great and you totally cried when Achilles found out Patroclus died.”

“Maybe.” Enjolras purses his lips.

“A-ha!” Grantaire shoves a finger in Enjolras’ face. “We’ll make a poet out of you yet, Apollo.”

“Sure,” Enjolras agrees amicably. He tells the hostess a table for two.

As they sit down, Grantaire realizes his mistake. Is it too late to get up and leave? Maybe Grantaire will get lucky and she’s not working tonight.

“Evening, Grantaire, Enjolras. What can I get for you?” Looks like Grantaire’s luck is non-existent. Eponine is staring down at him, a smirk on her face. Grantaire is _never_ going to hear the end of this.

“Hello, Eponine. I didn’t know you worked here.” Enjolras is polite. Grantaire doesn’t want to know what his face is doing.

“Yeah, well, gotta pay the bills somehow.” Eponine stares at Enjolras and Enjolras has the grace to look uncomfortable.

“How’s Gavroche?” Grantaire hopes Eponine doesn’t pick up on the desperate plea to distract her. She probably will. Grantaire is pretty sure she can smell fear.

She keeps her gaze on Enjolras for an extended second before looking over at Grantaire. She grins, sharp. “He’s a little twerp, as always. Are you going to order? My feet hurt.”

Enjolras relaxes and they order.

Grantaire really, _really_ hopes Enjolras just assumes that Eponine is rude. They’re good friends—good enough that she’s heard Grantaire’s late night ramblings about Enjolras. She’s also been there for the fights between Enjolras and Grantaire that got a little too personal. How is Grantaire supposed to explain to Enjolras that Eponine feels protective of Grantaire? That she doesn’t like how Enjolras treats him?

Grantaire grabs for any subject he can to distract from Eponine’s weirdness.

“So now that this paper is no longer kicking your ass, are you ready to admit that books are great and this class is awesome?”

“I never said books weren’t great. I love books.” Enjolras frowns, adorably. Grantaire refuses to be affected by it.

“Your law and activist theory books don’t count. I mean _fiction._ Poetry, Enjolras! The whole point of being _human_ is poetry.”

Enjolras looks pensive. “Interesting theory. What about art? Aren’t you an Art History major?”

Grantaire is surprised that Enjolras knows what his major is. It shouldn’t be that weird—they are friends, in that their friends are friends and so they hang out socially on a regular basis, and that is a thing a friend should know. But, as usual, Enjolras is different.

“Apollo, are you really gonna sit here and tell me poetry isn’t art? They’re one and the same. The only thing humanity has ever gotten right is _art_ and I will die on this hill.” Grantaire nods decisively. He could defend art and poetry and literature for days, no matter his partner. But especially to Enjolras, who seems amazingly willing to listen to his rambles as of late.

Enjolras is looking at him, smiling slightly. If Grantaire didn’t know better, he’d say Enjolras looks fond.

Grantaire can’t explore _that_ thought any further because Eponine brings out their food.

The diner’s food is good, as usual. The conversation halts as they both tuck in. Grantaire is halfway through his meal when Enjolras speaks again.

“I thought Eponine worked at the coffee shop on campus.”

Grantaire looks up from his dinner to see Enjolras staring off in the direction of the kitchen where Eponine disappeared.

Grantaire checks to make sure she isn’t somehow behind him.

“She works there during the day, and here at night. She’s got a third job, but it doesn’t give her as many hours so she just fits it in around the other two. She doesn’t like for people to know.” Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras finally looks back at him.

“Why not? It’s not like it’s her fault that capitalism sucks.” Enjolras’ stare is heady like this—intense and looking for an answer. Grantaire wants to give him the world—no, that’s not big enough. Jupiter. The entire solar system. All the stars in the sky.

Grantaire takes a bite of food and chews slowly, picking his words carefully.

“She’s working to take care of her brother and sister. Their parents were pretty shit and Eponine ended up being the caretaker. The three of them have gone through hell and come out the other side—Eponine’s spent a lot of time being defined by that. She doesn’t want to wear her traumatic childhood on her sleeve anymore. So, she keeps it quiet that she has to work three jobs to support them.”

Enjolras looks thoughtful. Then, his eyes widen right before Grantaire feels something hit his head.

“Hey!”

“You telling pretty boy all my secrets, R?”

Grantaire winces and looks up at Eponine standing in front of her table. How does she _do_ it?

“Sorry?”

Eponine rolls her eyes. “Don’t do it again, or I’ll start spilling _your_ secrets.” She grins at the panicked look on his face, and reaches out a hand to ruffle his hair. “You know I would never, R, come on.” She shoots a sly glance at Enjolras.

“Great. Thanks. Why are you here, again?”

“Are you enjoying your meal?” She drones in a deadpan customer service voice. It startles a laugh out of Enjolras, and Grantaire grins. “But seriously, do you want refills?”

Eponine leaves with their empty cups.

“I like her,” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s smile turns fond.

“Me too. She’s my best friend.”

“I’m glad you have her.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras in surprise. “Thanks, I think?”

Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire inspects him for a moment.

“Can I ask a stupid question?” Grantaire blurts out. Enjolras nods, confused. “Are we like, friends?”

“Uh.”

“Okay, you don’t have to answer that, it’s fine—”

“No, no—it’s just. I don’t know. But I’d like to be?” Enjolras winces at his own uncertainty. Grantaire holds his breath. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Grantaire.”

He looks so sincere, it’s painful. Grantaire breathes out, then musters up a smile.

“Then let’s be friends, right?”

Enjolras smiles back. “Right.”

They finish their meal, and this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t a date. Walking him home is something Grantaire would do after a date and this wasn’t a date.

“Want me to walk you home?” Grantaire wants to punch himself in the face. Enjolras looks surprised.

“It’s not far, I’ll be fine on my own.” A perfectly reasonable thing to say to Grantaire’s ridiculous offer. Grantaire isn’t disappointed. But then: “If you want to, though, I don’t mind.”

And so Grantaire walks Enjolras home. He was right—it’s a short walk, barely five minutes. They talk about the birthday party that Courfeyrac is planning for Marius, sharing in their mutual fondness for Courfeyrac’s extravagant plans. When Enjolras talks about his friends, he has this certain expression. It’s one part exasperation, one part fondness, and so full of love for them it hurts to look at.

Enjolras tells Grantaire goodbye and goes into his apartment for the night.

“See you in class, Grantaire.” And Grantaire is alone.

Friends. He can do that.

Grantaire can’t believe how quickly it goes to shit.

Les Amis are meeting at the Musain, as usual. Lately, everything has been about the demonstration—discussing what needs to happen, who needs to do it, and when it needs to be finished. They’re more boring than usual, but Grantaire still goes. All his friends are there, and he finds himself still drawn to their cause, despite having trouble believing in it the way they do.

So Grantaire sits in the back and he drinks and he tries to be less contrary, because he is desperate not to mess up the delicate peace he’s created with Enjolras. But he is Grantaire, and his filter is non-existent.

That’s how it starts.

Grantaire is a little drunker than he’d planned to be—Enjolras was wearing a bright red button-down shirt today. It hugged his chest when he moved, and as the meeting wore on, he rolled the sleeves up, revealing his forearms. Grantaire had been paying more attention to that than to how much he was drinking.

Today Les Amis were discussing the event’s essence—they want to have a clear idea of the message they’re trying to send to unify all the different performers into something concrete. And hopefully slogan worthy. Or something.

“We want to communicate that the Forgotten aren’t less than people with angels. They can achieve just as much as anyone. We also want to raise awareness of the stigmatization of being Forgotten and how that only reinforces narratives. Of course, we’re raising money for a charity that helps out those who can’t get jobs or housing because of their Forgotten status.” People are nodding at Enjolras’ words. Grantaire purses his lips. Enjolras continues, “We need to show the world that being Forgotten doesn’t mean anything about you as a person. It shouldn’t mean you can’t live a normal life.”

Anger wells up in Grantaire at how the angels, _his people_ , have fucked over the humans so much that they can’t live without them. Guilt washes over him, drowning out the anger, and then despair, that millennia of angel involvement in humanity has fucked them over for the rest of time. It’s a lot of emotions at once. He can’t say most of it, not to these people, who believe him to be human. Not to Enjolras, when Grantaire doesn’t even know how Enjolras objectively feels about angels, on a personal level. If he even feels anything at all about them—it’s not like most people ever even _meet_ one.

Grantaire knows he cannot explain himself fully, but he raises his hand anyways. That’s not really how Les Amis do things here, but Grantaire doesn’t care right now. He waits just long enough for Enjolras to look at him before he starts speaking.

“Just because they _should_ be able to live a normal life doesn’t mean they _can_. That’s not how the world works.” Jehan grabs Grantaire’s arm and he shakes him off. “Is this really going to change anything? When the angels leave, there are wars. Genocides. Humanity only has peace when they have the angels. Maybe the paranoia about the Forgotten is fucking justified. We’re forced to live at the supposed mercy of our ‘guardian angels.’”

The room is quiet. Grantaire distantly notes the faces of the rest of Les Amis and realizes he probably should have kept his mouth shut. But the rest of him is focused on Enjolras, whose hands are balled into fists and his shoulders are squared. Grantaire can’t tell what he’s feeling at the sight of Enjolras so angry, and he’s not sure he wants to.

“We can’t change the angels. We can’t make them stay when they want to leave. We can’t predict when they leave. The only thing, the one goddamn thing, that we actually have control over is ourselves. Maybe humanity shouldn’t be so beholden to the angels, then. Maybe it’s time we learnt to fend for ourselves.”

Grantaire scoffs. Enjolras advances on him, his eyes blazing.

“What? Do you really have more to say?”

Grantaire’s always had more nerve than sense when it comes to Enjolras. He stands in front of Grantaire now, and Grantaire looks him dead in the face. He speaks slowly and purposefully, matching Enjolras’ intensity for once.

“Humans need the angels to live. They always have, and they always will. Humans are _pathetic_ without angels.”

Grantaire doesn’t look away from Enjolras, but he notes how utterly silent the room is. They’ve fought in past meetings—this is different. It hasn’t really been this bad before.

“Well, I seem to be doing just fine,” Enjolras spits, then spins on his heel and storms out, not even stopping to grab his coat. 

The implication is obvious, but it still takes Grantaire a moment to process the words.

Enjolras is Forgotten.

_Oh, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://amateurbunburyist.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me following my self imposed schedule. enjoy! next chapter, in theory, will be up next sunday. 
> 
> all the comments and kudos on the last chapter made me so happy!! thank you :D
> 
> (follow me on [tumblr](https://amateurbunburyist.tumblr.com/))

Enjolras is Forgotten.

Grantaire tries to think about any evidence—excessive colds, cuts, visits to the hospital. He can’t. Bossuet is always sharing stories of one mishap or another, but Enjolras is so capable. If it’s true, if Enjolras doesn’t have an angel, Grantaire can’t believe how well he’s hidden it.

With Enjolras gone, the rest of Les Amis start moving, slowly. Grantaire stares vacantly ahead.

He needs to go. Not to Enjolras, that can wait, but he needs to go.

He gets up, hoping that Enjolras has gone far enough that Grantaire can get out without seeing him. He grabs his coat. Before he’s able to leave, Jehan catches his eye.

There are a thousand questions in his face. Grantaire has no idea what he’s supposed to do here—apologize? Probably. But that, too, can wait.

“I’ll see you at home, okay?” Grantaire hopes Jehan will let him go. Jehan nods, though his brows are still furrowed. Grantaire sends him a thankful glance and goes out the door.

Enjolras shivers in the alley beside the Musain. He didn’t want anyone to come out and find him, but he did leave his coat inside. _Anyone_ mainly being Grantaire, not that Enjolras really expects that.

He texts Combeferre, asking him to bring his coat out.

He knew that Grantaire was disillusioned with humanity and the angels, but if he thinks Enjolras _should_ be treated worse because he’s Forgotten, Enjolras doesn’t have room for that in his life.

Enjolras dances from side to side, holding his arms. It’s freezing out here.

Thankfully, it’s then that Combeferre rounds the corner, Courfeyrac in tow. Enjolras can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed that Combeferre brought someone when Enjolras asked him not to. They have his coat, which he shrugs on gratefully. He breathes on his hands, trying to bring some warmth back into them.

“What do you want to do? Grantaire has left, but everyone else is still inside,” Combeferre, ever practical, asks.

Enjolras makes a face. “The meeting was almost over anyways. I just want to go home.”

“I’ll tell everyone they can go. This situation calls for some hot chocolate, I think.” Combeferre adjusts his glasses. “I’ve even got a documentary about moths we can watch!”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac share an amused glance at the mention of Combeferre’s moth obsession before Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras carefully.

“Are you okay? That was pretty rough. And I know you don’t like to tell people.”

“I didn’t know he felt that way; I would have kicked him out ages ago.” Enjolras grimaces. “I wanted to throw it in his face.”

Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras into a hug and Enjolras goes willingly. He knows Courfeyrac won’t stop until Enjolras lets himself be comforted—he’s learnt not to fight against it. He appreciates the warmth—despite his coat, it is still very cold.

“I thought we were friends, Courf,” Enjolras whispers into Courfeyrac’s coat. “I thought we were becoming friends.”

Courfeyrac rubs his back. “I know, Enj, I know.”

Enjolras hugs him tighter until Combeferre comes back.

“Everyone understands; we’re good to just leave. Courfeyrac, are you—”

“Yes, I’m coming. I already told Marius not to wait up.”

Combeferre grins. “In that case, I also have a moth _man_ documentary we could watch.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac boo Combeferre’s suggestion in sync and they all laugh. They head back to Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s place together.

When they get there, Combeferre delivers on the promise of hot chocolate and a moth-based documentary. Courfeyrac talks over the whole thing while Combeferre attempts to shush him, and Enjolras pelts marshmallows at Combeferre and it’s all really just very good. Enjolras hadn’t realized that he’d missed his two best friends this much.

Of course, that thought leads him to the reason he’s been so busy lately—Grantaire. They’d been spending more time together; for class, but also as friends.

The more Enjolras thinks about the fight, the more pissed off he gets. Right after, he was just drained, and he thought maybe it wasn’t that bad. But now that he’s calmed down, he realizes how fucked up what Grantaire said was. That Grantaire had been sitting in the back of their meetings, thinking that everything they were doing was pointless, brings Enjolras’ anger back full force. He always knew Grantaire didn’t believe in the cause, but Enjolras always thought that he could change Grantaire’s mind. It had been an intoxicating challenge. 

He’d imagined telling Grantaire he was Forgotten, before. It was always at night, a secret in the darkness. Something special, told to someone he trusted. Not used as a weapon.

Enjolras sighs. Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac stop their squabbling to look at him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Not really. There isn’t much to say.”

“It’s hard to be disappointed by those you care about. But hopefully Grantaire realizes he fucked up, and this doesn’t have to be the end of you two.” Combeferre adds.

Enjolras chews his lip. Combeferre is right—the reason that this fight sucks so much more than the others is because he _cares_ this time. Enjolras is almost _heartbroken_ , for fuck’s sake. The realization is not a welcome one, at the moment.

Grantaire better have a good fucking apology.

Grantaire makes it home in record time. He texted Eponine on his way and she’s waiting outside his apartment when he gets there.

_Enjolras is Forgotten, how could he not know…_

Absurdly, Grantaire thinks about his paper on Patroclus and Achilles. Maybe Achilles was Forgotten after all, and Grantaire was just reading into things he wanted to see. It wouldn’t be the first time.

When Eponine sees him, she hits him on the arm. “What were you thinking? Cosette told me what happened.” Seeing Grantaire’s face, she sighs. “Come on, let’s go up. It’s freezing down here.”

Grantaire lets them into his apartment and falls onto the couch face first, without taking off his coat or shoes. He groans.

“Quit it, you brought this on yourself. Do you want to explain to me what was going on in your head when you told Enjolras and all of your friends that you think their entire cause is pointless?”

Grantaire reluctantly sits up and rubs his head. The fight and the chilly walk home have kind of killed his buzz and a headache is starting to grow.

“I don’t know. I don’t know! I just. His optimism is so exhausting sometimes. I don’t understand—I _can’t_ understand the way he looks at the world. I should have stayed quiet, I know but—I just. I didn’t.”

Eponine listens to Grantaire’s rambling with her arms crossed. When he trails off, she sighs again.

“He’s not going to forgive me. We were finally becoming friends and I fucked it up.” Grantaire stares morosely at the ground.

“Did you mean what you said?”

Grantaire looks at her. “What do you mean?”

“Did you mean it? That you think humans can’t exist without the angels?”

“No. Maybe. What do you think?” Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek.

Eponine leans back and considers him. “I think that the angels have fucked us over too many times. I think it’s about time we start to learn how to live without them, if they’re going to be so fickle. Besides, I’ve never needed an angel.”

Grantaire winces. He forgot that Eponine was Forgotten, too. He feels like an even bigger asshole.

“I guess it’s hard to watch humans worship the angels, when they clearly don’t really care. Like, if they did have humanity’s best interests in mind, they wouldn’t just fuck off to god knows where every couple centuries and leave humans to live on their own with no warning.”

“So the solution is to just give up on humanity? That’s kind of bullshit, R, and you know it.”

Grantaire sighs in frustration. “Okay, maybe you’re right. What’s your point?”

Eponine tilts her head. “If you didn’t mean what you said, if it’s just something you said out of like, drunken anger or whatever, that’s not great. You still shouldn’t have said it. But Enjolras always, always means what he says. He’s probably thinking you fully believe he shouldn’t be able to have a ‘normal’ life because the angels lost track of his file when he was born. The fact that you _don’t—_ “she levels a glare at him, “—believe that the Forgotten deserve what they get is a point in your favour. I’m just saying, you _are_ friends. Friends fight. They fuck up. Then they apologize and hopefully move on.”

Grantaire nods slowly, his heart lifting.

“I mean, don’t get too excited. Enjolras can still not forgive you. That’s still a real possibility. You were a major dick, R. When you apologize, it better be fucking good.” Grantaire is glad he called her. Her brand of no-bullshit honesty is exactly what he needed right now.

“Thanks, Eponine. Is this the part where we hug, or?” Grantaire opens his arms in invitation, a small smile playing on his lips. She rolls her eyes, but leans over to wrap her arms around him nonetheless.

“I’m sorry, Ep,” Grantaire says into her hair, because he is a coward. “I think you are the most capable person I’ve ever met and it’s amazing how you haven’t let your bad luck in life stop you from thriving.” 

Eponine pats his back. “Thanks, R. You’re alright, though you do drink too much. Isn’t your angel supposed to encourage sobriety, or something?”

“Or something.” Grantaire pulls back, his face going sour

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Eponine raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe my angel’s a dick.” _Please drop it_ …

Eponine’s eyes narrow. Shit.

He scrambles for a believable lie to tell her. She might let it go if he plays it right… but he knows the truth is the best way. Maybe it would be good to tell someone, after all this time. And if he’s going to tell anyone, Eponine is definitely the best person. He knows she’ll take his secrets to the grave if he asks her too.

He’s been here so long. Until he met Les Amis, until his stupid obsession with Enjolras forced him into proximity with these people, he was so lonely. What would it be like to show someone his true, full self?

“Okay, I don’t really know how to say this. I’ve never told anyone this before.”

Eponine nods, encouraging him to go on. Oh god, she probably thinks he’s about to say he’s Forgotten. Grantaire swallows, then continues.

“I may…actually… _be_ a guardian angel. Or, I was, at least.” He almost closes his eyes so he won’t have to see her reaction, but he risks a glance at her face despite himself.

Her eyes are comically wide.

“Um, hi?”

Grantaire and Eponine both turn to see Jehan, standing in the open door of their apartment, plastic bags in both hands.

“I bought ice cream?” Jehan raises the bags to indicate their contents. “Sorry for interrupting. I just got here, I swear.”

“But you heard, right?” Grantaire is weirdly calm.

Jehan, looking guilty, nods.

“Sorry,” he offers again.

Grantaire breathes in. He breathes out. It does nothing to stop the feeling that he’s lost complete control of the situation. Maybe he can say it was all a prank. _A ha! Gotcha!_

“No need to be sorry. This is your apartment too. What kind of ice cream did you get?”

Jehan is frozen for another moment before he moves, cautiously, to the kitchen with his bags.

“I got mint chocolate, because I’m not a monster, obviously. And I got vanilla, cause it’s good for sundaes. But then I wanted chocolate too, so I got chocolate. Oh, and whipped cream and chocolate sauce. And sprinkles!! I can’t forget the sprinkles!” Jehan says all this over his shoulder, stopping to show off his sprinkles.

Grantaire hops over the couch and follows Jehan into the kitchen, desperate to follow this strand of normalcy as long as his friends will allow it. Jehan and Eponine are his two best friends in the world. And now they know something he thought he’d never tell anyone.

He guesses he can live with that. But it’s going to take a minute to sink in.

Grantaire doesn’t look back to see if Eponine follows him. He just goes straight to his spot on the counter where he likes to sit while Jehan tries to cook. He’ll offer Jehan unhelpful advice and make sure he doesn’t set anything too important on fire, while Jehan ignores him and makes a mess while telling him all about his latest inspiration. It’s a routine, and Grantaire wants to wrap himself in it. 

“Hey, Eponine. It’s been a while.” Jehan putters around the kitchen, making up a sundae for himself and for Grantaire. “Would you like a sundae?” He spills chocolate sauce on the counter as he looks at her instead of what he’s doing.

“You’re making a mess. And hi Jean, I’ve been busy with work. Do you have any nuts?”

Jehan squints, then brightens. “We do! I think. Let me check. Also, it’s Jehan, please.”

Eponine comes to stand over by Grantaire, leaning against the counter next to him. She bumps her shoulder into him and Grantaire tries to relax.

“So, an angel, huh?” All casual.

Jehan turns around from where he’s rummaging in the cupboard. “No talking about anything serious until we have ice cream.” He points the ice cream scoop at her accusingly.

Eponine looks to Grantaire for help, who shrugs and says, “Them’s the rules, kid.”

Eponine harrumphs and crosses her arms.

Jehan finds the nuts and makes up the sundaes. The ice cream is starting to melt and he uses way too many sprinkles, but a sundae is a sundae. Grantaire eats his slowly, hoping that the ice cream will protect him.

No luck. Jehan, with his bowl half empty, turns to face Grantaire.

“Do you mind if we ask some questions? Did you want to say anything else before I interrupted? Should I pretend I didn’t hear—which will be pretty hard, to be honest, but I could do it if you really wanted me to—and leave so you and Eponine can have this conversation alone? We’re all ears, here, right, Eponine?”

Jehan has chocolate on his face. Eponine looks at him, purses her lips, and nods.

Grantaire eats another bite of his sundae, considering.

“Is it okay if I say I have no idea what to do?”

Jehan nods emphatically. “Of course! Well, how about we ask some questions and if you don’t want to answer them then you don’t have to.”

Grantaire shrugs in acquiescence

Jehan and Eponine size up Grantaire. He shrinks under their gazes.

“What are you doing here, living with me and going to University?” Jehan is first to ask.

Grantaire considers trying to hide, to lie and evade, because, at the end of the day, he is ashamed of his actions. He may talk a lot about how corrupt the system is and how he didn’t want to be a part of it anymore, but that’s all talk. He left because he was tired. He didn’t try to change anything. He just gave up. But if he can’t be honest with these two…

“I quit.” Grantaire isn’t sure how much they want him to say, but they’re looking at him expectantly, so he goes on. “They don’t care about you up there. The fact that we’ve abandoned humanity so many times is only proof of that. I think the system is stupid and bad for everyone involved and I was sick of it. Do you know how draining it was to watch human after human die? Knowing that even though I _could_ do something about it, if it was their ‘time’, I wasn’t allowed to? Yeah. So, I quit. I left. I came down to watch humans die on their own time, on their own planet, as one of them. Not as some bullshit superior being who plays god with their life.”

Grantaire stops in a huff. He kind of got a rant going there.

Jehan is grinning at him. “You’ve been spending too much time with Enjolras.”

Grantaire blinks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Whatever. Are you human now, then?” Eponine brushes him off before Jehan can explain.

Grantaire chews his lip. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve definitely become more human, whatever that means, since I’ve been down here. I need more sleep and I get like, wicked hangry when I haven’t eaten. But sometimes I go days without sleep. Time works differently for angels, and we’re different beings, and living on Earth has been an adjustment.

“And then there’s the fact that I don’t have a guardian angel, obviously, but I was trained as one. It’s like I’m my own angel, I guess. Not that I always use that judgement, as you both know.”

“So that’s how you manage to work at the bar every night and still go to class!” Jehan shoves a finger in his face. Grantaire laughs and shoves his hand away.

“Even mythical beings need to pay the bills somehow.”

Eponine is watching them silently. Grantaire has never been great at reading her, but he can tell when she’s chewing on a thought like a dog with a bone.

“Hey, Eponine?” She looks at him. “Are we okay?”

Eponine breathes out all at once. “I don’t know. This is a lot to take in.”

Grantaire nods. His lip feels raw from where he keeps biting it.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, then blurts: “Did you leave a human when you left? Are you the reason someone’s Forgotten?”

Grantaire doesn’t want to say it, not to Eponine, who’s entire family is Forgotten, whose life has been shaped in the worst way possible by angels not doing their job. But he has to. She has to know the truth. He can’t keep this from her, not after everything.

“Yes.” He’s not going to try and water it down or explain himself.

She nods. Then keeps nodding. That’s too much nodding.

Before Grantaire can react, she’s moving. She heads for the door, not saying anything. Jehan tries to stop her, but Grantaire puts his arm out. He knows Eponine. She’s not one to process emotions in front of people. If she’s mad, or upset, or whatever else with Grantaire, he’ll know. But sometimes she just needs to go feel her feelings by herself before she settles on how she’s going to act. A habit picked up from trying desperately to be a better parent to Gavroche than the hotheaded messes that she calls parents.

She leaves, and the closing door feels louder than it is.

“I really feel like I should give you a hug right now, R. Doctor’s orders.” Jehan, sweet Jehan, says with open arms.

Grantaire laughs, and he can’t deny his face is a little wet. “Well, if the doctor says so…”

Jehan wraps his arms around him snugly. Jehan always gives the best hugs. Grantaire clings to him and can’t even bring himself to feel pathetic about it, that’s how good a hug it is. He’s been hugged a lot, tonight. He can’t say he’s against it.

“I’m glad you walked in when you did,” Grantaire says into his shirt.

Jehan pets his head. “I’m glad I did, too.”

Grantaire leans into the hug for another moment, then pulls back. He wipes his face a bit.

“Don’t get too comfortable. I still have _so many questions_. Do you know how many things the Angel Studies department wants to know? That you could just _tell_ them? Didn’t you take an Angel Studies course in second year? Isn’t that cheating?”

“I like hearing what humans think about angels. They didn’t really let us see that kind of stuff before I left. It was a bit of a culture shock when I got here, to be honest. I was under the impression that no one knew we existed.”

“Would it be rude if I got a notebook, or…?” Jehan points to his room. Grantaire laughs again.

“Go ahead. It’s not like I had any other plans tonight.”

Jehan goes and gets a notebook from his room. He comes out his room looking sheepish.

“So, in my defense, this is kind of a huge and unexpected thing to learn for me, but please forgive me. I’m a terrible friend. Are you okay? That fight was rough.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep learning angel secrets?” Grantaire grimaces.

“Do angels call themselves angels? Do they have their own language? Do—” Jehan cuts himself off before he gets too off topic. “Never mind, you can answer that later. I think we should probably talk about it.”

“But I already talked about it with Eponine,” Grantaire whines. “I was a dick and I’m going to apologize and that’s that.”

Jehan considers him. “I mean, fair enough. But don’t you think the situation is a bit different? When, you know, you’re indirectly—or maybe even directly, we don’t know—the cause of the root of Enjolras’ suffering for the last twenty-six years?”

Grantaire hadn’t thought of it like that. Enjolras is Forgotten, and Grantaire left a string of Forgotten behind him. He has no idea how many people whose lives he’s messed up—if they haven’t noticed his absence, then they’d still be giving him human cases, who aren’t getting their angel, because he decided to fuck off and hang out with humans instead.

“Do we have any vodka?” Grantaire groans.

“If we did, this is not the time to be drinking, R.” Jehan gives him a stern look.

Grantaire is tempted to wave him off and get a drink anyways. But it’s Jehan, and Grantaire doesn’t want to disappoint him. Not tonight, anyway. 

And because Grantaire only has so much self-control, he asks, “Do you think less of me?”

Jehan eyes him, considering. Grantaire holds his breath. “I think you were very brave to leave. I obviously don’t know all the details, but from the little you’ve mentioned, it sounded bad. I’m glad you are here, with us.”

“Brave? I ran from what I knew was right. I didn’t do anything to change it.” Grantaire finds himself arguing, repeating the stuff his brain says to him late at night when he can’t sleep.

“Revolutions don’t happen with one person, R. You saw something you disagreed with and you did something about it. You left. That’s more than a lot of people could say.”

Grantaire, having come to the same conclusion that he was a coward again and again over the years, blinks at Jehan’s different logic. He’s sure his brain will come up with reasons to disprove Jehan later, when he tries and fails to fall asleep, but for now he has nothing.

“Touché.” He picks at the skin next to his nail. “Thanks, I think.”

“You’d better thank me; I’m making nothing but good points here. You should appreciate me.”

“I do appreciate you, Jehan. More than you know. Don’t worry about that.”

“Good. Now, about Enjolras…”

Grantaire sighs. “I did seriously talk this through with Eponine already. We don’t have to rehash it again tonight.”

Jehan puts his hands up. “For sure. I just—I think you should tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That you were a guardian angel. Maybe not right now, obviously, but once you’ve made up.” Jehan holds up a finger to silence Grantaire before he could interrupt. “No, you _are_ going to make up. I know these things. It’ll be good for both of you if you tell him and I think Enjolras will be more understanding than you expect.”

“That’s crazy,” Grantaire says. “But I guess there are crazier things. I never thought I’d tell anyone, actually. I’m kind of in unchartered territory right now.”

“Oh. Well. Think about it.”

There’s a silence.

“Thanks for pseudo-telling me, R.”

“Thanks for being there to pseudo-tell, Jehan.”

Grantaire picks at the fraying end of his glove, hesitating. He knocks on the door.

It’s a few days after the fight. Grantaire hasn’t left his apartment except for work—it’s too hard to avoid Enjolras and Eponine otherwise, let alone the rest of Les Amis. He doesn’t know what they’re all thinking, but he wants to make up with Enjolras before he talks to them.

He knew he was procrastinating, but he didn’t know what to say. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he knows he’s scared.

Combeferre opens it. He raises a cool eyebrow at the sight of Grantaire, damp from the blizzard starting outside.

“Uh, is Enjolras home?” Grantaire and Combeferre are friends, but Grantaire knows that Combeferre would pick Enjolras over him a hundred times. As such, the sight of Combeferre isn’t as comforting as it usually is.

“I’ll check.” Combeferre walks further into the apartment. He doesn’t close the door, which Grantaire figures is as much of an invitation as he’s going to get. He steps inside, closing the door behind himself, and waits. He leaves his coat on, but takes off his gloves and hat when they start dripping, shoving them in his pocket. 

He looks around the apartment that Enjolras and Combeferre share. He hasn’t been here before, and it’s tidier than he would have expected. Whenever Grantaire and Enjolras had studied together for class, Enjolras would spread his stuff as far and wide as he could. It was as if he had a personal vendetta against any spare space not being used to hold something, be it paper, books, or coffee. Grantaire had thought his apartment would be the same.

Maybe Combeferre is tidy enough for the both of them and Enjolras’ room is the mess Grantaire expected. Or maybe Grantaire doesn’t know Enjolras as well as he thinks he does.

Grantaire grimaces. Too late to chicken out now.

Grantaire straightens when he hears someone coming. It’s Combeferre again, and Grantaire relaxes slightly.

“He says you can come in.”

Grantaire nods quickly, and toes his boots off, leaving them in the small puddle that collected while he’d waited. He walks, sock-footed, in the direction that Combeferre came from, assuming that’s where Enjolras is. Combeferre leans against the wall and watches him go.

Grantaire sees an open door, and peaks his head in. Enjolras is in there; this must be his room. He’s sitting at his desk, which is just as disordered as Grantaire’s initial expectations predicated—extending to the floor and the bookshelf next to it are papers and open books and various pens and highlighters. The rest of the room has books piled haphazardly on the floor—the bookshelves are overflowing. The bed is unmade, with more pillows than Grantaire can count. There are things taped to the wall—fliers from various events that Les Amis were involved in, but also photos of Enjolras’ friends. The picture is, in a word, chaotic .

It’s absurdly reassuring to know he got that detail right about him.

Grantaire can see a copy of Wuthering Heights, the book they’re reading in class next week, open on Enjolras desk. He’s there, reading it.

Grantaire knocks lightly on the doorframe and Enjolras turns. Grantaire waves slightly, not sure what else to do with his hands.

Enjolras sighs and marks his page. He gestures for Grantaire to come in.

“Hi,” Grantaire offers.

“Hi.” Enjolras tilts his head and says nothing more.

“I’ve come to apologize.”

“I’m listening.”

God, Enjolras can be so cold when he’s mad. Grantaire knows he kind of deserves this, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. What I said was uncalled for, untrue, and bullshit. I shouldn’t have said it, and I especially shouldn’t have said it when and where I did. But most of all, I am sorry about the way it ended. I’m sure you didn’t want people to find out that way and I’m sorry for the hand I had in it.” Grantaire folds his hands in front of him, resisting the urge to let his eyes wander away from Enjolras’ piercing gaze.

“Okay.”

Grantaire blinks. “Okay? Is that all you have to say?”

“I have a few questions, but I don’t really want to fight with you right now.” Grantaire can’t believe he ever thought this cold statue was Enjolras. No emotion is shown in his voice or on his face; he’s impossible to read. When they met, and Enjolras disliked Grantaire, he was like this all the time—it drove Grantaire crazy. Grantaire developed the compulsive need to break that perfect calm by any means necessary. Of course, that backfired into making him dislike Grantaire even more. But lately, since they’ve been friends, sort of, Enjolras has warmed up. He smiles, he squints, he _emotes_. It’s daunting to see the façade return.

“That’s fair. If you want me to go, I will. But if you want to talk, we can, I don’t know, have a truce. Only playing nice. If you wanted. I don’t want to fight with you either, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras considers him. “Truce, then. What you said was bullshit? So you don’t believe that humans are pathetic without their guardian angels, then?”

“No, I don’t.” Grantaire winces.

“That’s good. Do you still believe our cause is pointless and a waste of time? We really don’t need that kind of energy at our meetings.” Grantaire feels his breath catch in his throat. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Enjolras said he couldn’t be a part of Les Amis anymore. He loves that passionate group of revolutionaries more than he ever thought was possible. 

Grantaire wonders if he should grovel, here, or if he should tell the truth. He can’t get a read on Enjolras to tell which would be better. Probably the truth, then.

“I… have a problem with optimism. I don’t see the best in people, and I never have. But before I met you, I never wanted to. You make me want to believe that you can change things, Enjolras.” Grantaire looks him in the eye. “I don’t know if you’ll succeed. But I know that I want you to.”

Enjolras is the first to look away, his mask not quite breaking.

“I suppose that’ll do,” he says without looking at Grantaire.

Grantaire leans back on the bed. He hadn’t realized that he’d moved forward so much while he was talking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Thank you.”

Grantaire isn’t sure if he’s supposed to leave now, or not. If they can move on yet. He hopes so, but he knows that’s not his decision to make.

“I cannot believe how terrible everyone in this book is,” Enjolras says suddenly, gesturing to Wuthering Heights. “And yet, I still care what happens to them.”

“That’s Wuthering Heights for you. It’s kind of the point.” A grin splits his face.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it. I couldn’t do this course without your batshit insane theories about the books we’re reading.” Enjolras teases and Grantaire laughs.

“They aren’t batshit insane, they’re right. You know Agamemnon was gay in your heart, Enjolras. You know it.”

Enjolras laughs, and the sound is music to Grantaire’s ears. “Sure, R. If you say so.”

Grantaire’s chest lightens at the sight of the statue cracking. Looks like they’ll be alright after all.

It’s Marius’ birthday.

Enjolras is hiding behind the couch in Jehan and Grantaire’s apartment. Cosette said they were going to be here any minute… six minutes ago. Enjolras’ thighs hurt.

“Can we move yet? Marius is going to be surprised no matter what, let’s not give the poor guy a heart attack.” Eponine argues.

Cosette shushes her. “Courfeyrac says they’re coming up now, I swear.”

Combeferre is crouching with him behind the couch. They share a look of commiseration.

Thankfully, the sound of the door opening sends them all jumping up and yelling, “surprise!” only moments later. Marius drops the coffee cup he’s holding, and liquid goes everywhere.

Jehan curses and rushes to the kitchen for paper towel.

Courfeyrac is laughing and Marius is fumbling trying to clean up the mess and also be surprised and also thank them for the party and—yeah, it’s a mess.

They get the coffee cleaned up, and the party starts, officially.

Someone turns some music on, food is brought out. Marius keeps saying they didn’t have to do this, that the decorations are too much, etc. 

“Well, when you date Courfeyrac, you’re going to have to put up with a few extravagant parties, Marius.” Enjolras teases him. Enjolras has had his fair share of such parties on _his_ birthday. 

“He’s right. You signed up for this.” Courfeyrac leans in for a kiss and Marius shoves him away playfully, a giant grin on his face. Enjolras turns his attention elsewhere as the two get distracted by each other.

Everyone’s hanging out in small groups, talking and laughing. There’ll be cake later, Enjolras knows, and presents. But for now, they’re just hanging out having fun. Even Feuilly was able to get the time off work—he’s throwing pretzels for Bahorel to try and catch in his mouth, though most of them are hitting his face.

Jehan is telling Bossuet and Joly a story, gesturing wildly. Cosette and Eponine are hanging out in the corner—Cosette is laughing at something Eponine said and Enjolras feels like he’s intruding when he sees the look Eponine gives her. Musichetta is showing off her new tattoo to Grantaire.

Combeferre sees Enjolras’ attention drifting and comes over from where he was getting a drink.

“Are you going to talk to him?”

Enjolras sips his drink. Combeferre sighs. “You’ve forgiven him, haven’t you?”

“I’m getting there.”

“You want to talk to him, so do it, Enj. He wants you to.” As if hearing their conversation, Grantaire looks up and flashes a grin at Enjolras and Combeferre. Enjolras lifts his cup in acknowledgement and Grantaire goes back to talking to Musichetta.

“How do you know I want to talk to him?” Enjolras responds. Combeferre levels a look at him and Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Fine, how do you know he wants me to talk to him?”

Combeferre just laughs.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, but Combeferre is undeterred.

“Let’s do shots!” Courfeyrac raises a bottle of liquor up to accompany his announcement and the room cheers.

Enjolras does not look at Grantaire, but he does accept a shot to a raised eyebrow from Courfeyrac.

It is a party, after all.

The party gets rowdier as the alcohol comes out and the music gets louder. Enjolras drinks and laughs—he is even coaxed into some dancing by Courfeyrac, though he mostly just sways and grins.

After a while, though, he needs a breather. He goes to the kitchen, where it’s a little quieter, and pours himself a glass of water from the tap. He drinks it all in one go and fills it up again to sip more slowly. Away from everything, he feels kind of dizzy. Maybe he shouldn’t have participated in _all_ the birthday shots.

He leans against the counter and closes his eyes for a moment.

When he opens them again, Grantaire is there.

“Hey,” Enjolras offers when Grantaire doesn’t say anything.

“Hi.”

Enjolras squints at him. There’s something off, but Enjolras can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Do you want some water?” Enjolras holds out his glass. Grantaire hesitates a moment before taking it and chugging it as Enjolras had earlier.

“Thanks,” Grantaire puts the glass down on the counter and wipes his mouth. He comes and leans opposite of Enjolras, closer than Enjolras had expected.

“What are you doing in here?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras shrugs. “What are _you_ doing in here?”

Grantaire shrugs back, a smile playing on his lips.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Do you think the angels in Ancient Greece were right to present themselves as gods?”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Who says it was the angels choice? It was humanity that came up with that.”

“Fair enough.”

“Besides, it’s not like calling them angels or gods really changes anything. We still worship them, whether we want to admit it or not.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything.

Enjolras looks at him. He isn’t sure if he should ask or not but—

“Are you high?” He tries to say it with as neutrally as possible. He isn’t sure how he feels about it, but he also knows it isn’t really any of his business what substances Grantaire puts into his body. Besides, Enjolras has learned not to comment on Grantaire’s state of sobriety, in general.

Grantaire puffs his cheeks out, then blows the air out of his mouth slowly. “Maybe. Is that okay?”

Enjolras gives a noncommittal shrug.

“I just thought it probably wasn’t a good idea to drink, so,” Grantaire mumbles, almost as if to himself. Enjolras considers the third, more obvious option: to just stay sober. He knows it’s not that simple for Grantaire, though.

He feels very out of his depth. The implicit reference to the last time Grantaire was drunk and he and Enjolras almost never spoke to each other again hangs heavy in the air.

“I suppose Jehan’s probably also high.” Enjolras slides his gaze to Grantaire, wry.

“Well, that’s Jehan for you.” Grantaire laughs. Relieved?

They stand in companionable silence for a few moments. The sounds of the party in the next room trickle into the kitchen—they hear Bossuet trying to sing terribly and Joly laughing at him, loud and boisterous

“Enjolras—”

“Can I—” they speak at the same time. Grantaire gestures for Enjolras to go ahead.

“Uh, I just wanted to say: Thanks. For apologizing. I am glad that we could end that with forgiveness instead of bitterness. I like having you in my life.” Enjolras isn’t sure where that came from. Maybe the warm feeling settled in his belly, maybe the shots.

“I like having you in my life, too, Apollo.” Grantaire blinks.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, Apollo.” They grin at each other. 

“What were you going to say?”

Grantaire squints. “I… don’t remember. Whoops. Yours was way better than mine, though.”

“How can you say my thing was better when you don’t even know what yours was?”

“Because knowing me it was probably another pseudo-philosophical question about the Iliad. Sorry, studying it again has me unable to stop thinking about it as of late.”

Enjolras thinks about that. He wonders if the Iliad is Grantaire’s favourite book. Why he likes it. What he thinks about it.

Well, that last one isn’t something he has to wonder. Grantaire does talk about the Iliad a lot for someone in the twenty first century. And yet, Enjolras still doesn’t know the most important things.

“Why do you like the Iliad so much?” Enjolras asks without thinking about it.

Grantaire puts a hand to his chest in mock surprise. “Enjolras, you wound me. It’s a classic.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s dramatics. “That’s not what I meant. I’m curious, okay? Why can’t you stop thinking about it? What about it sticks with you?”

Grantaire eyes Enjolras with suspicion. Enjolras holds his hands up in innocence. Grantaire sighs, then looks at the ceiling, then back to Enjolras.

“I think there’s something so human about it. It’s about all these super humans and gods, but it isn’t really. There’s Achilles, sure, but he’s not really the whole story. The story, despite being supernatural, retains its humanity. When Patroclus dies, the fact that we can still feel Achilles’ grief, millennia later… it’s beautiful. The love that Achilles and Patroclus have will never die. I don’t know. Ask me when I’m sober and I’ll give you a better answer.”

“That answer was fine. What are you talking about? That’s a great answer.”

“Not to you, Mr. Law Student who doesn’t appreciate the arts.” Grantaire shakes his head.

“I think I’m starting to. Thanks to you.”

“Well, now I’m blushing.” Grantaire smiles, droll.

Enjolras, still a little tipsy, hits him lightly on the arm, bringing them closer in the process. “I’m serious! I never thought about how—how awesome books could be. I knew people loved reading fiction and I always thought oh that’s valid! It’s just not for me! I’ll take all these books on gender theory and whatnot and I’m fine! I don’t really understand why you’d get a degree in reading books, but whatever, it’s your time and money. But the _power_ a book can hold over you. Obviously words can have a lot of impact, but I didn’t understand, before. I don’t think the English department, or the art department, are a waste anymore. Not that I ever did but I just—I didn’t get it. But now I think I do. All your ramblings have gotten to me, R.” Enjolras is a little flushed by the time he’s finished, and he’s kind of leaning on Grantaire and wow, does Grantaire look at him like that all the time and this is the first time he’s noticing?

Grantaire is looking at Enjolras like he hung the moon. Huh.

Enjolras wonders if he’s looking at Grantaire the same way. He thinks he might be.

Without his consent, his eyes flick to Grantaire’s lips and then he’s leaning and—

The sound of a glass shattering breaks their eye contact. Grantaire backs up out of Enjolras space and Enjolras is still processing what just happened and

“Hey, Grantaire, where’s the broom? Bossuet broke a glass. Also, why are you two hanging out in here, you anti-social fucks, come join the party.” Jehan pops his head in the doorframe and then leaves before Grantaire can tell him where the broom is.

He almost kissed Grantaire. Hm. Now that he’s thinking about it, that is something he would quite like to do, actually. Shit.

Grantaire rubs the back of his head. “I think I’m gonna go help clean that up. Thanks for—uh, talking.”

Enjolras watches as Grantaire makes his escape. Maybe Enjolras is wrong about what just happened.

He sighs. He guesses Grantaire’s always kind of been a thorn in his side—why would that change once he started crushing on him? He fills up his glass of water—the one Grantaire’s lips were on earlier oh my _god_ is he in middle school—and heads back out to enjoy the rest of the party.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now here's when we get to the part where I start projecting on the centuries old characters and call it fanfiction 
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://amateurbunburyist.tumblr.com/)

Grantaire has to tell him. Holy fuck, he has to tell Enjolras.

He isn’t sure, but he thinks they might have almost kissed in the kitchen. If he’s right, if Enjolras might return even an inkling of his feelings (Grantaire can barely think it without grinning)… then Enjolras has to know what Grantaire has done. What he _is_. He isn’t even human, for fucks sake. Now that Jehan and Eponine know, Enjolras could find out. Not that he doesn’t trust his friends, but secrets have a way of getting told whether they like it or not. He doesn’t want Enjolras to find out from someone else.

Grantaire _also_ doesn’t want to tell him, though. He doesn’t want Enjolras to react the way Eponine did—he hasn’t heard from her since she left his apartment last week. At Marius’ party, she avoided his eyes the entire night and hid behind Cosette. 

Jehan is right, though. He doesn’t like feeling like he has no choice, but he knows it’s the right thing to do.

Grantaire replays the moment in the kitchen, when Enjolras had gone on a tipsy rant about books and Grantaire felt an immense _fondness_ that was going to overflow and drown them both. Then Enjolras had been looking at his lips and leaning in….

Grantaire thinks about how it would have gone if Bossuet hadn’t broken that glass. He wonders what Enjolras’ lips would have felt like. If Enjolras is a good kisser. If he kisses with the same passion that he gives speeches with, then Grantaire can’t imagine Enjolras being bad at it.

He sighs. He’s so fucked. He texts Enjolras.

_I need to tell you something._

It might be vague and ominous, but he thinks the situation warrants it. Maybe it’ll prepare Enjolras.

God. It won’t. Grantaire is going to tell him and Enjolras is going to report him to the FBI who are going to send him to area 51 and then experiment on him and make him tell them all about the angel secrets. Most of which Grantaire doesn’t even really know. He was a guardian—they didn’t tell him shit; he just did what he was told. Until he didn’t.

He gets a text from Enjolras: _I already know you’re into men_

Grantaire snorts. He gets another text before he can respond.

_I’m free after 4, want to get coffee?_

_Actually, can you come over?_ He sends before he can think twice about it. He can’t tell Enjolras he’s a fucking guardian angel in public. That’s just a bad idea all around. Telling _anyone_ was a bad idea in the first place.

Well. He can’t exactly go back now.

Grantaire spends the next few hours obsessively cleaning the apartment. He has readings to do, but he knows he won’t be able to sit still. He needs to feel busy.

He manages to kill a couple hours but by the time he’s gone over the whole apartment with a fine-tooth comb, it’s only 2:30 and now he’s kind of exhausted.

He decides to take a bath to help himself calm down, which is a terrible idea because it’s just him alone with his thoughts. He loves baths, generally. He has a whole host of bath products in all sorts of scents. But today, he just spends the entire time trying to figure out what he’s even going to say to Enjolras.

_Hi, yes, I’m not human and also directly involved with the suffering of humanity. Wanna make out? Oh, or run away screaming, that’s fine too._  
  
Enjolras won’t run, Grantaire knows that much. But beyond that…

He tries to reason with his anxiety that Enjolras will react how he’ll react pretty much no matter how Grantaire says it, so it’s no use worrying over it. His anxiety fires back that that’s not true and Grantaire could definitely mess it all up. Grantaire decides to stop talking to his anxiety.

Grantaire sticks it out in the bath for an hour before he gives up and gets out. It’s 3:30. Grantaire puts the kettle on. Maybe tea will make him feel better.

He waits, as if for his execution, his hands gripping his mug of tea long after he’s drunk it all.

Finally, too soon, there’s a knock at the door.

Grantaire opens it to find Enjolras in his signature red coat, his blond curls pulled back into a practical ponytail. He looks concerned. Grantaire feels his heart drop to his feet when he sees him and Grantaire genuinely can’t tell if it’s nerves or his crush or a combination of the two.

Grantaire invites Enjolras in.

“Uh, do you want some tea or coffee—or we have water?”

“Could I have some coffee? I’m still recovering from this weekend.” Enjolras’ mouth quirks up to one side.

“It’s been two days, Apollo, what are you, forty?” Grantaire attempts his usual banter and misses. He heads to the kitchen to get the coffee maker going.

God, he wishes he hadn’t offered. Does he wait for the coffee to be ready before he says it? Ugh.

“How… are you?” Grantaire throws out there. He cringes.

“Uh, I’m good. How are _you_? I’ve been worried all day.” Enjolras worried about him?

“Sorry, yeah, uh. Well.” 

The only sound is the coffee machine gurgling. When it’s done, Grantaire pours it into a mug with Shakespeare quotes all over it and gives it to Enjolras black, the way he likes it.

“Do you want to sit in the living room?” Enjolras offers and Grantaire nods, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. They sit on the couch.

“So, I’ve been stressing about this all day and how to say it and I don’t really want to do a big long speech and waste both of our times so I’m just going to come right out and say it.” Grantaire looks at the coffee table instead of Enjolras. He sees him nod in his peripheral.

Grantaire takes a deep breath, then looks at Enjolras. “I’m a guardian angel.”

Grantaire watches the confusion set in to Enjolras’ face.

“You’re—what?”

Grantaire bites his lip. “I used to watch over a human to make sure they stayed safe. I’m not human. I’m an angel. I left, decades ago. I’m not a guardian angel anymore, technically but—I was. I was.”

Enjolras’ face, which Grantaire has seen so cold it was almost a statue, is frozen in an entirely new way.

Enjolras opens his mouth, then closes it.

“Why are you telling me this? Why now?” Enjolras finally gets out.

Good question, Grantaire thinks.

“I wasn’t ever going to tell anyone. I didn’t know how people would react. But I also didn’t plan on caring about a group of humans the way I care about you… Les Amis, I mean.” Grantaire grimaces at his slip and continues, “I told Eponine the other day. Jehan overheard, so he knows too. And now you.”

Enjolras digests this. Grantaire feels disconnected, like this is a dream.

“You said you quit. What does that mean? Why? When you said humans were pathetic without angels…” Enjolras doesn’t seem mad, Grantaire thinks. Just confused.

“I left. I didn’t tell anyone, I just left and came down to Earth. I’ve been laying low ever since. In theory, they don’t know that I’m gone, or they assume I died. That happens a lot, to guardians. That’s how Forgotten happen. Angels die, they get murdered for no reason, and then a string of humans have terrible lives until someone notices that an angel is not doing their job. Which can take generations, in human time.” Grantaire explains this without emotion. He doesn’t want to sugar-coat it. He wants Enjolras to know the truth about what Grantaire has done.

“That doesn’t—but _why_ did you leave?” Enjolras says, frustrated.

Oh. Now this one is a bit harder to answer.

“Up there, for the angels…time moves differently. Human lives go much faster for us. I’d spend a few weeks at most for a human who lived to be 100, guiding them through life. Then I’d get another assignment. And I’d do it all over again.” Grantaire pauses. “Sometimes, they’d make us leave. To fight in their wars. I rarely knew what we were fighting over, to be honest. I never wanted to leave my charges, but I didn’t have a chocie. The last time I was made to leave, it was during the French Revolution.”

The French Revolution is an interesting time in history—because at first, it was angel-approved. Most points of interest in history are marked by the angels leaving, but not this one. They were there for the beginning. And then, they left. With society in such a delicate balance, things got ugly, fast.

“I came back and saw the carnage that took place while I was gone, and I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t be part of that system that made the humans rely on us, only for us to abandon them at any minute with no warning. It was cruel. It _is_ cruel. So I came to Earth, where I can bear witness to humanity in all its glory—both the good and the bad. On their timeline. I never expected to get so… involved. Not that I knew what to expect. I might have had a microscope to look at individual humans, but for the most part I was completely in the dark about Earth. All guardians are.”

Grantaire finished and put his hands in his lap. Enjolras had been listening intently, but now he leans back and gives Grantaire a once-over.

“A guardian angel. I thought you had cancer or something.”

Grantaire winces. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know how to handle it.”

Enjolras is chewing on his lip.

“What are you thinking?” Grantaire asks before he can stop himself.

“Nothing, I’m just re-evaluating all the time I’ve known you, all the things you’ve said and done. Trying to let this sink in.”

“That’s fair.” Where do they go from here?

“Do you get a kick out of taking courses on angels, then?”

Grantaire laughs in surprise. “Uh, kind of. I don’t really know much more about angels than humans do. It’s cool to see like, nuanced discussions of them instead of just the general culture of believing they can do no wrong or whatever.”

“I still think that’s kind of cheating.” Enjolras grumbles. Grantaire grins.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell on me.”

“I think I can manage that, at the very least. For the help you’ve given me.”

“Ah, you never needed my help. You’d have got there eventually.”

“Maybe.” They’re quiet for another moment. Grantaire breath is already coming a little easier than this afternoon. He told Enjolras that he was a guardian angel and the world didn’t end.

“By the way, I do have so many questions. I’m trying to be respectful, but you can’t just say ‘I’m a guardian angel’ and leave it at that.”

Grantaire sighs. “I know. What do you want to know?”

“What have you been doing on Earth this whole time, before you met us? The French Revolution was a long time ago.”

“That’s a lot of ground to cover. Are you sure you have time for this?” Grantaire kind of likes the idea of telling Enjolras what he’s been up to. Finally being able to tell all his stories to someone, without having to censor himself, is an appealing prospect. And more than that, he wants Enjolras know him.

It’s as simple as that.

A guardian angel. That was the last thing Enjolras expected. To be honest, Enjolras was half expecting to be let down easy. If Grantaire didn’t return his feelings, the situation at the party would have been uncomfortable for him, and this was Grantaire setting some boundaries. The other half of him was hoping for the opposite—that Grantaire was going to make some sort of grand gesture to declare his feelings as dramatically as possible.

But no. An angel.

Enjolras keeps repeating it to himself as Grantaire starts to tell him about his time on Earth. A long time it’s been, too. That’s maybe the weirdest part. To know that Grantaire has seen so much. Grantaire has never seemed old to Enjolras. Jaded, maybe, but young nonetheless.

Grantaire was there when the Great Depression started—he got to watch firsthand as more and more people were being Forgotten, day after day. Grantaire told Enjolras how he knew it had been bad for the humans, but it was so much worse watching it happen up close.

Enjolras feels a lot more sympathy for Grantaire’s skepticism in their cause as he hears more stories. He doesn’t agree with it, of course—Enjolras’ faith is as unyielding and stubborn as he is. But he maybe respects Grantaire a little bit more, knowing what he’s seen.

Grantaire tells Enjolras of the protests and movements he followed—the suffragettes, the fight for civil rights, gay rights. Grantaire, wry, comments that maybe he’s always been drawn to the humans who are trying to change things. Enjolras feels a tug deep in his belly, but Grantaire moves on quickly.

“When I came down here, I didn’t think I’d like it. I was leaving a bad situation for one I didn’t know anything of—I thought at the very least that I would be free, on Earth. I didn’t expect much else, to be honest. And in the beginning, I watched humanity as something separate from them. I participated only so much as was needed to blend in; I kept to myself. But eventually I got lonely, and I realized that I was here to stay. I might as well keep myself entertained. So I started getting to know people. And Enjolras, I love humanity. For all its flaws and imperfections, I love it here on Earth, living amongst the humans. You are all so vibrant and full of life—completely opposite to my life before this. When I discovered art… that was it. If there was ever a chance of me going back to the angels, art was the last nail in that coffin. This is the third Art History degree I’ve gotten, did you know? I try and change it up, of course, but I just keep coming back to art. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

“What other degrees do you have?” Enjolras knew that Grantaire was well educated—he and Enjolras are an even match in a debate, and that’s saying something. He seemed to have an endless well of random knowledge. In the past, he claimed insomnia and a Wikapedia addiction.

“Hmm. There’s Art History, of course. I have a degree in the fine arts as well, but I really didn’t enjoy that one as much. I prefer being able to make art at my own pace. I have a degree in English, History, Psychology, Philosophy… oh, and I tried becoming a doctor once, but I didn’t get very far. As much as I love humans, your anatomy is gross.” Grantaire punctuates that last statement by poking Enjolras, who tries unsuccessfully to dodge, laughing.

“So you’ve just been, what, going to university for a hundred years?” Enjolras can’t imagine that. He’s in school to get a degree, but then he wants to _do_ something with it. It’s a means to an end.

“I like to learn. I like the atmosphere of university. And I think college students, despite being very intelligent, are some of the least observant people I’ve ever met. It’s easier to keep a low profile.” Grantaire shrugs.

Enjolras considers this. “Is that why you live with Jehan?”

“Uh, kind of. Don’t tell him.”

“I won’t. Do you have other degrees you want to get? After you finish this one?”

“I’d like to try music, but I’m not sure I’m good enough to do that yet. But maybe if I take advantage of the whole immortality thing to just spend an entire decade holed up with a bunch of instruments, I’d be able to do it. Music is wonderful. We didn’t have music, before.” He pauses. “Is there anything you’d study, if you had the time?”

“I don’t know. If I had the time… I think I’d just want to spend it as I already am, trying my best to change the world for the better.”

Grantaire has a self-deprecating smile on his face. “A noble goal.”

Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Stop it. We are not the same person and your situation is not the same as mine. Do _not_ compare us.”

Grantaire looks at the hand on his arm, then at Enjolras’ face. Enjolras is staring at him intently, hoping Grantaire understands how earnest he is. Grantaire nods with a melancholy smile.

“Okay. Thank you, Apollo.”

Enjolras nods his head in emphasis and leans back, taking his hand back. Grantaire’s arm was warm; Enjolras doesn’t want to move. He needs to get this crush under control.

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras responds, an afterthought. Grantaire looks at him softly. Enjolras bites his lip and watches Grantaire’s eyes shoot down to follow the movement.

Enjolras considers it. He does. But it seems insensitive to try and stick his tongue down Grantaire’s throat after a confession like this. Besides, he was really enjoying Grantaire’s stories.

Someday. Soon, knowing himself. He’s never been good at waiting for the things he wants—he’d much rather reach out and take it.

Enjolras sighs. Stands up. “I’m parched. Do you want some water?”

Grantaire quirks his mouth up on one side. “This is my apartment.”

“Fine. Can you get me some water, please? Or can I just get it myself, Oh Supreme Owner of the Apartment?”

Grantaire laughs. “I’ll get you some damn water, Apollo. Would you like ice?”

Enjolras stays at Grantaire’s, learning more about his past, for hours. By the time he goes home, it was late enough that he fell straight into bed. When he woke up, he didn’t remember his dreams—only the strong impression of a loneliness to big to handle that followed him all morning.

He goes back to his life. It feels insane to do so—he just found out his friend is a literal angel—but what else is there? He spends the next few days distracted, thinking about all the stories Grantaire told him and coming up with more and more questions for him until he’s bursting. All of a sudden, it’s time for their weekly study date.

Grantaire told Enjolras he was at the campus gym and they could meet there before heading to their usual café. Enjolras gets there a bit early and goes in—and there’s Grantaire, sweating in a tank top, hitting a punching bag that Bahorel is holding. His fists are wrapped.

Enjolras stops at the sight of Grantaire’s bare arms. When Grantaire mentioned the gym, Enjolras hadn’t thought anything of it. But now, at the sight of Grantaire’s arms on display like that, Enjolras realizes he probably should have. 

Also, Grantaire’s tattoos. He’s only seen peaks of them, but now they’re fully on display. Enjolras can’t tell what they are but he sees that they’re colourful and cover his shoulders to his elbow on his left side.

Bahorel sees him first. “Enj! You here to get swole with me and R?”

“I’m here to make Grantaire explain Wuthering Heights to me.” Enjolras shrugs in apology.

“Aw, come on. I’m sure you’ve got some rage to take out.” Bahorel gestures to the punching bag. Grantaire is unwrapping his hands, done with his workout. His brushes his damp hair out of his face and Enjolras’ eyes follow the motion without his consent.

“Bahorel, he’s going to hurt himself. You know he can’t back down from a challenge,” Grantaire argues, grinning.

Enjolras strides forward and punches the bag as hard as he can. He got into a lot of fights when he was younger, so it’s a familiar motion. The punch catches Bahorel off guard, and he almost loses control of the bag.

“Shit, Enj. You’re packing some heat under that pretty face of yours.” 

Enjolras shrugs, feeling pleased with himself for impressing Bahorel. “I try.”

“I’ll shower and be out in five minutes, okay? I don’t want to smell.” Grantaire is walking backwards as he speaks, holding two thumbs up in Enjolras’ direction. Enjolras nods, indicating that he’ll wait here with Bahorel.

“So, how long have you and Grantaire been workout buddies?” Enjolras asks.

“A few years? We box together, gotta stay in shape for that.”

“Boxing?”

Bahorel looks at him strangely. “Yeah. He’s been doing it for ages, even before he knew me. That’s how we met. You didn’t know he boxed? We spar like, twice a week.”

“He never mentioned it,” Enjolras says weakly.

He asks about Bahorel’s girlfriend to change the subject. No one’s ever met her, and Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet like to take bets on her existing, but Bahorel clearly loves her. He chats happily about her until Grantaire returns, hair damp and arms back under the usual long sleeves.

He leads the way out of the gym and to the café where they now meet regularly in the name of tutoring.

“I didn’t know you boxed.” Enjolras tries to broach the subject casually.

“Really? Well, I do. Have for a while. Feels good, ya know? In the past I couldn’t really... be physical like that.”

Enjolras knows he means his time as an angel. Enjolras still can’t believe it, even after trying to process it all week.

How can Grantaire have told him that, his deepest secret, and Enjolras doesn’t know he _boxes?_

Enjolras is starting to feel like maybe he doesn’t know Grantaire at all.

They get to the café and set up at one of the tables. Grantaire gets two of the same sugary concoction, despite Enjolras’ protests. “I don’t want you stealing mine when you order yourself something boring,” Grantaire teases with a grin on his face. Enjolras rolls his eyes, but accepts the drink when Grantaire holds it out.

“So. Wuthering Heights. Have you finished it?” Grantaire gives himself a moustache of foam as he sips his drink.

Enjolras groans. “Barely. How do English students do all this _reading?_ ”

“I’m pretty sure they just don’t sleep. Or they read the SparkNotes.”

Enjolras tries his coffee. It’s good. He can’t even complain that Grantaire didn’t get him his normal black coffee—though he does enjoy how flustered Grantaire gets when he steals his drink.

“Did you like it?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras is a bit taken aback. _Did_ he like it?

“Does it matter if I liked it?”

“No, but I’m curious. Humor me.” Grantaire rests his head on his hands and looks at Enjolras expectantly.

“I don’t know, to be honest. I didn’t hate reading it, though the characters were pretty frustrating at times. I think it had some interesting things to say about the connection between class and angels. But I don’t know if I could say I liked it. Did you like it?”

“I’ve read it about four times since I got down here, so clearly there’s something there that speaks to me. I do, I think. Cathy and Heathcliff, as miserably awful as they are, still tell a compelling story. And those themes of forbidden love are always going to hit home.”

Enjolras smiles at Grantaire’s explanation. He likes the way Grantaire talks with his hands.

“I like the way you talk about books.” It slips out almost without Enjolras realizing.

“Oh really?” Grantaire teases and a blush rises to Enjolras’ face. “Well, I like the way _you_ talk about books. And like, revolution. I really like the way you talk about that. It’s what made me join Les Amis.”

“Are you serious? I thought you hated me!” When people glance over at their table, he lowers his voice before continuing, “What do you mean you joined our group because of me?”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to be sheepish. Enjolras thinks he might be blushing, as well. They must be a funny picture, both of them sitting there, red in the face. Like they’re on a first date.

“I never hated you, Apollo. I thought you hated me, though. Not that I blamed you. I was pretty annoying when we first met.”

Did Enjolras ever hate Grantaire? Maybe, at first. Disliked him, definitely. But always weirdly hurt, underneath it all—that this man came to his meetings to make fun and mock everything Enjolras stands for, time and time again. Enjolras remembers wondering what he did to deserve Grantaire’s ire, that he would spend so much time trying to ruin Les Amis. It drove him crazy.

“I just didn’t understand you. I still don’t. I think I’m getting there, though.”

Grantaire chews on his lip and watches Enjolras. After a moment, he says, “I’m sorry for the way I behaved when I first met. I just wanted you to pay attention to me and I thought that was the only way you would. And then you pushed back and something in me had to see how far I could take it. It was stupid.”

Enjolras eyes him. “Thanks for apologizing. But you know you could have also just treated me like a person. Instead of whatever you were doing, with all that ‘Apollo’ stuff.”

Grantaire laughs. “Well, I know that _now_ , Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras fires back, rolling his eyes.

“Would you rather some pet names? I could do pet names, darling.” Grantaire leans forward, drawls his words, and drapes himself dramatically on the table.

Enjolras shoves him in order to hide whatever his face is doing. “What if I called you names, asshole.”

“Oh, I think I’d like that more than you’d expect, sugar plum.”

Enjolras is surely beet red now. Fuck.

“So Wuthering Heights! And angels. None of which are currently present.” Enjolras says loudly.

Grantaire laughs. “Wuthering Heights. And no angels. Let’s go.”

They spend the rest of the time talking about Wuthering Heights and the intersections of class and angel-status. It was written around the time when having an angel was becoming really important socially, and the book explores that in some really interesting ways. Grantaire, as usual, has some wild theories about the book—and some that are more insightful. Enjolras, his second book in, actually has some things to say this time. He never thought he’d be here, sitting in a café doing literary analysis with an ex guardian angel—with Grantaire.

After a few hours of chatting—they stay on topic for an impressively long amount of time, but they do eventually move on to other topics, mainly their friends—Enjolras feels confident that he’ll be able to handle the Wuthering Heights essay without Grantaire’s help. He knows he’s still going to ask for it anyway, but no one but Enjolras needs to know that.

As he walks home, evening falling around him, Enjolras grins at the memory of Grantaire calling him darling. He’s not sure he’ll tell Grantaire, but he definitely likes that more than Apollo.

Granite is studying by himself at the university library—exams are coming up and even Grantaire is buckling down. Jehan is having Montparnasse over to have a séance tonight; he’d invited Grantaire, but Grantaire decided to do the responsible thing instead. It’s too bad; Jehan and Montparnasse are the funniest pair to hang out with, and Jehan’s séances are always entertaining, at the very least.

“Are you sure? We’re gonna try and contact Robespierre and Oscar Wilde.”

“Robespierre and Oscar Wilde, huh? Seems like it’ll be a wild night. I’d love to, but I really want to pass this class, and I hear the exam is impossible.” Grantaire shrugged.

Jehan had paused in laying out a blanket on the floor in the living room. “Okay. Do you have any candles?”

And so, Grantaire sits in the library, staring at his notes. He’s been here a few hours—honestly, he can probably go home at this point. The séance is definitely over, and he’s not really studying anymore. There is a good chance that Jehan is making out with Montparnasse in the living room, though, and he’s walked in on that too many times to want to do it again.

He sighs, and sits back, rubbing his eyes. Maybe he should just risk it. It’s been long enough, maybe Montparnasse has gone home. Or they’ve moved to Jehan’s room.

When he opens his eyes, Combeferre is there.

“Hello.” Grantaire blinks up at him. Combeferre is holding his messenger bag strap with both hands.

“Hi, R. What are you up to?” Combeferre inspects Grantaire’s workstation through his glasses. “Studying going well?”

“Meh. I think I’m done for the night, honestly.”

“Same here. I was going to stop and get food on my way home, if you want to come. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Grantaire checks in with his body to discover that he is, in fact, starving. “Yeah, okay.”

Combeferre waits as Grantaire shoves his books in his bag and grabs his coat. It’s his worn leather jacket he’s had since the 90’s; not that anyone knows that. It’s not quite warm enough to wear it just yet, but Grantaire is willing to brave the cold. 

“How’s your semester going?” Grantaire asks as they start walking.

Combeferre just groans. Grantaire laughs.

“My apartments a mess right now. Enjolras and I are both too busy to clean. Though to be fair, it’s not like Enjolras does much cleaning at the best of times.” Combeferre rolls his eyes.

Grantaire perks up at the mention of Enjolras, predictably. “He doesn’t clean? Sounds like a terrible roommate.”

Combeferre smiles. “Maybe so. He cooks a killer breakfast, though. He makes a feast every Sunday. Courfeyrac loves it—he sleeps overs just so he can have breakfast the next morning. It kind of makes up for his messy tendencies.”

Grantaire can’t imagine Enjolras cooking anything, let alone pancakes.

Grantaire wonders how Enjolras is in the mornings. For all the coffee he drinks, Grantaire presumes that he’d be grumpy. But perhaps he gets up at 5am to start on his important work of saving the world as soon as possible.

_You don’t know him at all,_ his brain whispers. Which is stupid, because whether or not someone is a morning person is _not_ essential knowledge.

But still, Grantaire’s brain argues back. He _wants_ to know those things about Enjolras. Grantaire loves Enjolras for the way he sees the world. But everything Grantaire learns about Enjolras have only made Grantaire feel an overwhelming _fondness_ for Enjolras that he never expected to feel for _anyone_ , let alone his shining Apollo. He was for looking, admiring from afar. Not whatever _this_ is. 

Grantaire realizes he’s been quiet for a bit too long for a proper conversation, but Combeferre doesn’t seem to mind. They continue walking in companionable silence until they get to a restaurant. It’s nice. Grantaire has always enjoyed being around Combeferre, though he was right when he said it’s been a while. He’s a calming presence and he allows Grantaire to be calm, too.

When they walk in, they’re immediately spotted—Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Bahorel are all sitting at a table in the corner. Thankfully the restaurant is kind of deserted, because they’re making a lot of noise. Grantaire and Combeferre don’t have much choice but to make their way over and join them. 

They chat for a few minutes—the group of four had just gotten there themselves, after running into each other on campus. A waitress comes over to take their order and Grantaire’s stomach rumbles as he looks at the menu. He really should have eaten earlier.

After the waitress leaves, Grantaire finds himself being stared at by Joly, who is joined by Bossuet.

“What? Is there something on my face?” Grantaire peers down his nose, trying in vain to see what they’re looking at.

Joly steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Grantaire. R. My dude. What’s going on with you and Enjolras? Spill, now, please.”

“Me and Enjolras? Nothing’s going on, what’re you talking about?” Grantaire’s voice has noticeably gone up an octave. Shit.

Joly raises an unimpressed eyebrow and looks at Bossuet, then back to Grantaire. He leans forward, conspiratorially. Grantaire reluctantly leans closer to hear him.

“I heard from Jehan that you two were pretty close when he came into the kitchen at Marius’ party. Besides, that fight was terrible, but you two were back to normal within a few days. Usually, you avoid Enjolras like a kicked puppy for weeks after a fight that bad, until you both forget what even happened. Now, spill.” Joly lays out his evidence factually, and Bossuet nods along to each point.

Grantaire looks incredulously at them. “Is this some kind of ambush? I didn’t even know I was coming here, how did you know I would be here? Should I call the police?”

At the word ‘police’, the other half of the table looks over.

“What are you three whispering about?” Feuilly asks.

“Joly’s trying to get Grantaire to admit there’s something going on with him and Enjolras,” Bossuet explains and Grantaire throws his hands up.

Feuilly and Bahorel immediately abandon their own conversation in favor of turning to look expectantly at Grantaire. Grantaire looks to Combeferre for an ally and Combeferre raises his hand in a clear _I’m staying out of this_ gesture.

“So? Are you banging our fearless leader yet?” Bahorel presses.

“No! I’m not—I’m not doing anything with Enjolras.”

They all just stare at him.

“I’m serious! Nothing’s going on, I swear. I’m just helping him with this class we’re taking, and we’re friends. More friends than before, least.”

“I told you it hadn’t happened yet,” Joly says, smug. Bossuet sighs and hands Joly some money.

“Why do you keep saying _yet_? What hasn’t happened?” Grantaire is starting to doubt every nice thing he’s ever said about these people.

“Everyone knows you and Enjolras are going to get together, Grantaire.” Feuilly explains patiently.

“I don’t know that!” Grantaire protests.

Joly puts his hand on Grantaire’s hand. “Oh, you sweet summer child. You and Enjolras are going to have beautiful babies and we all know it. It’s only a matter of time.”

Grantaire purses his lips. “You don’t know that, actually. That’s not going to happen. Enjolras doesn’t like me like that.” Grantaire isn’t sure that’s true, actually, but he sure is hell isn’t going to tell these gossips that.

“No one gets under his skin like you do, R. Which isn’t always a good thing, of course. We figured it could go either way, with you two.” Bahorel puts in.

“Either way?”

“You know, a wedding certificate or a restraining order.”

Grantaire grimaces. “Of course, how silly of me.”

“But then you two started hanging out and fighting less. The coin has been flipped, my dude. You two are gonna get it on.” Bahorel nods sagely.

“Thanks for the support, guys. But no.”

Joly pats his hand again. “It’s okay, you’ll get there. Enjoy it when it happens. You two have so much unresolved sexual tension it’s gonna be like an explosion—”

“Okay! That’s our food! Time to eat quietly without saying any words!” Grantaire interrupts Joly as he, blessedly, spots the waitress. They all laugh at him, and dig in. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t return to Grantaire and Enjolras after his obvious distraction.

He thinks about what they said, though. All through dinner, and after he gets home—where he knocks loudly and comes in slowly, and _still_ sees Jehan’s tongue down Montparnasse’s throat.

Grantaire’s had sex with humans before. How could he not have? He wanted to try everything humanity had to offer, and try he did. He’s had a number of partners over the years, some for longer than others. He enjoys it, but he’s never cared for the people he’s slept with like he cares for Enjolras. He can’t help but wonder, now that his oh so wonderful friends have put it in his head, what Enjolras is like in bed.

He is _so_ fucked.

“Did you know that Grantaire boxed?”

“Oh, hello Courfeyrac, how are you Courfeyrac, it’s so great to see you Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac waves his arms around.

“Hi. Did you?” Enjolras sits down across from him. They’re at Courfeyrac’s usual haunt, a coffee shop on campus that always has fun drinks. Courfeyrac is often found studying at one of the tables in the back.

Courfeyrac taps a pencil to his chin. “I think he mentioned it, yeah. He does it with Bahorel, right?”

Enjolras groans and puts his head on the table.

“Is it upsetting that Grantaire boxes? I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“How did I not know this? Everyone seems to know more about him than I do. I thought we were friends, but there’s so much of him that I’m missing.” Enjolras finally raises his head from the table to look at Courfeyrac imploringly. “Am I a bad friend?”

“Do you want my honest answer? Or do you want me to comfort you.”

“The first, please.” Enjolras grimaces.

Courfeyrac looks at him. “I think you care a lot. About a lot of things. You want to talk about the things you care about, with the people you care about. That’s not a bad thing. It just means the details get lost sometimes.”

Enjolras takes that in with a frown. “Are you saying I suck at small talk?”

“Kind of, yeah.” Courfeyrac shrugs.

Enjolras isn’t sure if he should take offense. He asked for Courfeyrac’s honest opinion and he got it. Does he need to be good at small talk? That’s not going to change the world. He chews on his lip.

“You haven’t even been hanging out with Grantaire like this for very long. He doesn’t offer much information about himself, but he doesn’t mind sharing if you push him. If you want to get to know him better, just ask him questions.”

As usual, Courfeyrac cut through Enjolras’ bullshit to get to the problem he needed help with, despite Enjolras himself not understanding.

“Thanks, Courf.”

Courfeyrac grins. “Go get some, oh fearless leader. You deserve it.”

Enjolras decides to follow Courfeyrac’s advice about small talk immediately.

“How’s Marius?”

“He’s great. He bought me flowers the other day and I almost swooned, I swear. That boy makes me want to take him home to meet the parents. Never thought I’d be so into it, but hey, we learn new things about ourselves every day.” Courfeyrac wriggles his eyebrows.

“That’s barely even an innuendo.” Enjolras throws a napkin at him.

Courfeyrac tries and fails to catch it, laughing.

“No insulting my shoddy innuendos while you’re being so helpless about your crush on R, okay. Those are basic middle school rules. Do you want me to tell him that you _like like_ him? Because I will.”

“As if I don’t have any dirt on you. Does Marius know about the time you threw up in a plant at his grandfather’s house the first time you met him?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Enjolras puts his hands up in a _what can you do_? gesture, smug.

“Fine, your secret is safe with me. But you better make a move soon. Grantaire might be willing to wait for you forever, but that doesn’t mean you should make him.”

Enjolras sobers. “I won’t.”

“Good. You better treat him right. I’ll be giving Grantaire this same lecture, by the way, when you get over yourself and kiss him.”

Enjolras ignores the kiss comment for his own sanity. “I bet he’ll love that.”

“Damn straight he will, I’m a great friend and you both know it. Now leave me alone so I can study in peace.” Courfeyrac waves him off and resolutely turns back to his books.

“Or I could study _with_ you in peace?”

“Yeah, okay. But be quiet. I have an exam in three days, and I am _not_ ready.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember when i posted the last chapter and there wasn't a global pandemic? yeah
> 
> thanks to everyone who's left comments and kudos! they spark much joy.
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://amateurbunburyist.tumblr.com/)

It’s been a few days since Enjolras talked with Courfeyrac. He’d taken in what Courfeyrac had said about Grantaire’s willingness to share, but he hasn’t had much time to act on it. He hasn’t talked to him in days—it’s a new thing, to notice. 

Enjolras, lost in the time suck that is finals, barely noticed the time passing. Today he is going to meet with Grantaire; they’d agreed to study for their English exam together.

He changes his outfit three times, before he decides that he’s being ridiculous. He ends up throwing on the same red coat he wears every day and running out the door, lest he be late.

Enjolras gets to the cafe and is waiting in line, having pulled out his phone to text Grantaire and ask if he wants anything, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns, and there’s Grantaire, wearing a hat with flaps. His hair is sticking out the sides comically.

“Hey, you.” Enjolras grins.

Grantaire grins right back. “Hey you? Did you forget my name or something? I’m appalled, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that, Grantaire.” Enjolras rolls the ‘R’ alongside his eyes.

Grantaire puts a hand to his chest. “He does know my name, lo and behold.”

Enjolras knows it’s a joke, but he still finds himself filled with shame. He can’t believe that he spent so long believing Grantaire to be nothing more than a drunk and a nuisance, without ever trying to see anything more than that. He knew nothing about Grantaire, but wrote him off anyway.

He’s going to fix it, he promises himself.

Enjolras buys them both coffee—despite Grantaire’s insistence otherwise. They have a brief and silent argument before Enjolras manages to get his money to the cashier first. In retaliation, Grantaire drops the $10 bill he would’ve paid with into the tip jar in an “aha!” move. Enjolras fights a smile and takes his change.

They settle in at what’s become their favourite table, far in the back and secluded away from the rest of the cafe.

“How are you?” Enjolras asks when they sit down, feeling exposed despite the innocuous question. “What have you been up to?”

Grantaire doesn’t notice Enjolras weirdness—or else he doesn’t comment.

“Ugh, I’m in hell. Why do I keep putting myself through this? It’s not like I need the degree. I have six papers due this week. Six! I’m only taking five classes!” Grantaire gestures with both hands, including the one holding coffee. He doesn’t spill it, even though by all rights he should have with those erratic movements. Enjolras wonders if that’s an angel thing, or if Grantaire is lucky. Maybe he just has great reflexes?

“Did you not spill that because you’re an angel?” Enjolras blurts without thinking.

Grantaire starts, then looks around. Enjolras, sheepishly, checks himself—they’re tucked in the back, no one is in ear shot, but still.

“Maybe? I don’t really know what being human and having a guardian angel is like. I would guide my humans so they wouldn’t spill things, that is a… _sense_ that I have. I could be subconsciously channeling that.” Grantaire tilts his head as he talks it out. “Also, I _was_ an angel. Who knows what I am now.”

_He doesn’t offer much information about himself, but he doesn’t mind sharing if you push him. If you want to get to know him better, just ask him questions._ Courfeyrac’s words come back to him. Questions. Enjolras can do that.

“You think you aren’t an angel anymore? Biologically, or –symbolically?” Enjolras frowns at his own words. He isn’t sure how else to phrase the question to be clearer—and less blunt.

Grantaire seems to get it, at least. “Both. Symbolically…what is an angel? Any answer I can come up with never seems to apply to me, anymore. Biologically, my physical needs have definitely changed since I’ve been down here—I didn’t use to need to eat or sleep, but now I get hungry and tired. It’s not like being human, though—my need is inconsistent. I don’t always need the same amount of food and sleep to function. Will I be just like a human one day? If I stay here long enough, will I start ageing? Will I die? I don’t know. There’s not exactly a rule book for this sort of thing.”

“Have you always looked like you do now?” Enjolras, selfishly, wonders how Grantaire’s uncertain future will intersect with Enjolras lifetime. Will he slowly become a different person as Enjolras gets older?

Grantaire’s brows are furrowed. “I think so? I wasn’t really paying attention. I imagine if something huge changed I’d have noticed, but I don’t think I would notice small things. Functionally, I guess I haven’t changed.”

Enjolras nods thoughtfully before asking, “Do you have any hobbies?”

Grantaire barks a laugh. “What is this, twenty questions?”

“Is that a problem?”

Grantaire’s amused face fades into something more genuine, if a little baffled. “No.”

Enjolras waves his hand to indicate that Grantaire should answer his question, then.

“Uh, hobbies? Yeah, I’ve got hobbies. What else would I do with my time?”

“What are they?”

“I like to draw. I paint, too, sometimes. Making art, really.”

“What kind of art?”

Grantaire scrunches his face. “Uh, anything and everything, really. I like to draw people best, but I’m not picky. Looking for a commission?”

“Maybe.” A smile plays at the edge of Enjolras mouth. “Can I see some samples first?”

“I don’t really have anything with me. But next time you’re at my place, let me know and I’ll let you take a look.”

Enjolras can’t wait. Has Grantaire’s ever drawn him? He’d like to see himself from Grantaire’s perspective. How things have changed—Enjolras never expected to care about Grantaire’s opinion of him so much when they met.

When he first met Enjolras, Grantaire would go to meetings and just spend the entire time drawing him, trying to capture his likeness on paper. Grantaire, after decades of art, was pretty good, but he still struggled with Enjolras. He had a bit more success on a canvass with paint—Enjolras’ golden hair, his red coat, his fiery passion coming to life with colour. Still, his paintings never lived up to the real thing.

He has other artwork he could show Enjolras, of course. But he wonders how Enjolras would react to Grantaire’s obsession so clearly laid out in front of him.

Best to wait on that one, Grantaire thinks. Grantaire doesn’t mention the graffiti, either. He’s not really sure why—just that he’s enjoying Enjolras’ attention and he doesn’t want to risk messing it up with a pointless fight.

“How about you, Apollo? Any hobbies for our fearless leader?” As much as Grantaire has wanted Enjolras’ intensity solely focused on him like this, it’s a lot. Besides, he likes the real Enjolras better than the Enjolras he’d imagined in his brain. He’d like to get to know him better, now that he seems to have the chance.

He didn’t expect it to be a hard question. But Enjolras seems to be racking his brain for an answer.

“Does activism count as a hobby?” Enjolras eventually asks.

“Not the way you do it, Apollo. I think a hobby is inherently casual.” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “You don’t knit? Play any sports? Musical theatre?”

“No? I’m busy, I work a lot.”

“What do you do in your free time?”

Enjolras scrunches one eye up. “I do work for Les Amis? I don’t know, I never noticed.”

“Never noticed what, having free time?” Grantaire is incredulous. He supposes that part of an angel’s job is regulating work/play time—it’s easy to overdo it in one direction and throw everything out of balance. The humans don’t seem to realize this function exists as far as Grantaire can tell, so Enjolras wouldn’t even know he was missing something while he was overworking himself. It had always been ironic to Grantaire, that it was his job to help people learn to relax while being denied the same.

Either way, Grantaire wants to take Enjolras aside and teach him how to play the guitar. Or bake bread, so he could get some of that aggression out. Take him to boxing classes. Anything to give the man a _break_.

Enjolras is shrugging, clearly unsure of himself. The old Enjolras would never dare to show Grantaire such vulnerability. Warmth spreads through Grantaire at the thought.

“Okay, well, fuck studying. It’s an English exam, you’ve read the books, you know the basics of writing an essay, you’re going to do fine. We’re going to go have fun, okay? I’m giving you a list of hobbies and you’re picking one. Come on, pack your bag up.”

Enjolras, shockingly, follows Grantaire’s order and gathers his stuff obediently.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asks as they leave the café.

“Okay, to be honest, I hadn’t gotten that far. What kind of hobby do you want? Something crafty, artsy, active? Maybe something in the kitchen? You name it, I’ve probably tried it and have a basic knowledge about it. I’ve had a lot of time to kill. Some might even say I’m an expert in killing time. Do you want to read books? We could go to a library, like a real one, not the University’s.” Grantaire finds himself rambling and forcibly stops himself to take a deep breath and look at Enjolras, who looks confused as to how he got in this situation. “If that’s okay?”

Enjolras nods, without hesitation. “I’m not very artistic,” he offers.

“I mean, it’s a hobby, you don’t have to be _good_ at it to enjoy doing it. Do you know what you like to do?”

After a lot of questions from Grantaire, they end up at Grantaire’s apartment and Enjolras gets a pair of knitting needles shoved in his face.

Enjolras hands are contorted in an effort to hold the needles and yarn correctly—Grantaire’s hands ache just to look at it. He gently relaxes Enjolras’ fingers, keeping his touches light and lingering no longer than necessary. Enjolras’ hands are warm.

He leans away to find Enjolras looking at him. He clears his throat and Enjolras looks back at his knitting.

Grantaire explains slowly the process, grabbing a second pair of needles to demonstrate. He watches as Enjolras clumsily attempts to mimic him, correcting him as he goes. Grantaire thinks he should probably stop touching Enjolras’ hands, but he knows he won’t unless Enjolras says something.

He doesn’t, just watches Grantaire from underneath his eyelashes.

Enjolras asks clarifying questions in a quiet tone, and Grantaire answers just as quietly. It’s like if they talk too loud they’ll disrupt something, that the moment they’re in can be broken by a sudden sound.

With Grantaire’s simple instructions, it’s not long before Enjolras is knitting a small square with some confidence.

“You can take those needles until you get your own, and I have some spare yarn for you if you want to make a scarf. Once you get the basics down, I can show you more complicated stuff that’ll let you make cooler things,” Grantaire finishes lamely.

“What’s your favourite thing to make?” Enjolras asks, still in that horribly intimate soft

voice.

“Socks. I love those double pointed needles.” Grantaire makes a snip snip motion with his hands like a crab. He’s not making sense, but Enjolras is right there. “I make all sorts of stuff though. I usually give it all to charity, I really don’t need to be decked out in knitted stuff all the time, and I’ve never really had people in my life to give it to before now. Maybe you can make stuff for Les Amis, we can have matching hats that our fearless leader made us, that’d be really intimidating to the naysayers, I think. It would really unify us as a group, they could be in red, you know, like your…coat….” Grantaire trails off. Enjolras put down his knitting on the table, well out of stabbing distance for the needles. Grantaire’s breath catches as Enjolras moves closer, just a little bit.

In that moment, Grantaire feels like anything can happen. He stops breathing. He imagines Enjolras lips, how soft they’ll be.

Before either of them can move, the moment breaks with a bang. They jump apart, and Grantaire twists on their couch to see Jehan coming into the apartment, this time carrying a large box.

Grantaire really needs to start hanging out in his room more.

“Hey, R, do you think we can make space in the living room for this bust I found of Edgar Allen Poe? I think it’ll really liven up the space—oh, hello Enjolras, I didn’t see you there.” Jehan comes in and shuts the door with his foot, then sets down his box. He looks between them. “Am I interrupting something?” Jehan might not think anything of Grantaire’s weird angel habits, but that does not mean he’s unobservant.

“I was just teaching Enjolras to knit. Did you know he doesn’t have any hobbies?”

“Hi, Jehan,” Enjolras sighs. “Where did you get a bust of Edgar Allen Poe?”

“Oh, it was in the cemetery.”

Grantaire rubs a hand over his face. “Jehan, did you steal a tombstone again?”

“Again?” Enjolras interjects with amusement. Grantaire turns away from Jehan to look at Enjolras.

“Yes, again. He thought it was an offering or something. Not that that would make it okay to take,” Grantaire says pointedly.

Jehan rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think it was an offering, I thought someone had forgotten it. It was cool, okay! And I brought it back once I realized.”

“How am I the mythical being, and you’re still the weird one in this apartment?”

“It’s a talent,” Jehan preens.

Grantaire can’t help the fondness in his voice when he says, “Yeah, yeah. Where did you want to put this bust?”

As much as Grantaire wanted to see where that moment was going, he’s okay with Jehan’s interruption. They start bickering about where to put the bust, which only kind of looks like Edgar Allen Poe.

This is easy, Grantaire likes this—whatever Jehan interrupted was unfamiliar. Enjolras’ attention has been intoxicating these past few weeks, to the point where Grantaire almost feels like he’s drowning in it—spending too much time with Enjolras makes him feel sunburnt and lethargic, like a long, satisfying day at the beach. If Enjolras kisses him—and Grantaire’s heart jumps at the thought—Grantaire might just implode. He won’t know what to do with himself.

“What if you put him in the kitchen? It could be a nice centerpiece for your table,” Enjolras pipes in , offering yet another unhelpful suggestion for where to put the bust. Grantaire might’ve considered that Enjolras was just bad at interior design but for the overly innocent tone he’s adopted.

Grantaire points at him. “You’re not helping. We’re going to have to re-arrange the room for this to work, Jehan, we got this.”

Enjolras ends up getting kicked off the couch so they can move it to the other side of the room. They move around furniture until they’ve completely changed the layout of their living room. Enjolras eventually helps, when they struggle to move a bookshelf overloaded with similarly found knickknacks.

When they finish, they all collapse onto the couch, Jehan in between Enjolras and Grantaire. The bust is now tucked neatly next to their TV.

Jehan orders a pizza, claiming that they’ve earned it. They sit in the newly redecorated living room to wait.

“How are you, Enj? It’s been a while.” Jehan turns to Enjolras.

Enjolras shifts in his seat. “I’m good, how are you? How’s the—“Grantaire imagines Enjolras searching for something about Jehan to ask about and feels a wave of fondness—“poetry going?”

“Oh! I’m going to be published soon. I won a competition where the reward is getting your work in an anthology.”

“That’s great, Jehan. You deserve it.” Enjolras congratulates Jehan with more sincerity than Grantaire might’ve expected from him.

Grantaire, however, looks at Jehan. “When did you find out? I didn’t know you won.”

Jehan beams. “Today, actually. That’s why I was in the cemetery, I was celebrating.”

Grantaire pats him on the knee. “Good for you, man. I knew you’d win.”

“Aw shucks, R. Thanks for believing in me.” Jehan bats his hand away. “Enough about me. What’s this I hear about you not having any hobbies? Enjolras, that’s just not healthy.”

Enjolras crosses his arms and doesn’t say anything, a look that can only be described as a pout forming on his face.

Grantaire and Jehan laugh. “I’m sorry, Enjolras, but how do you not have any hobbies? It’s all about that Marxism, reconnecting with the fruits of your labor and being anti-capitalist. Make stuff! Reject the factory work that alienates you from your labour!” Jehan stands up and raises a fist to accompany his passionate speech in favour of having hobbies. Grantaire nods along.

“He’s right, you know. Me teaching you to knit is anti-capitalist.”

Enjolras reluctantly smiles and uncrosses his arms. “Well, in that case.” He picks up the discarded knitting, dropping a number of stitches in the process. He immediately puts it back down again and holds his hands up. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch that.”

Grantaire laughs and grabs it himself, quickly picking the stitches back up—they held their shape, so it isn’t hard. He hands it to Enjolras. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you in line.”

There’s a knock at the door and Grantaire gets up to grab the pizza. He brings it to the kitchen, since he doesn’t want Enjolras to know how often Grantaire and Jehan eat in the living room, for decorum’s sake. He grabs plates out of the cupboard, again out of shame, and grabs himself a glass of water. Finishing this, he realizes Enjolras and Jehan haven’t joined him in the kitchen. He peaks his head out to check on them—they’re on the couch still, talking quietly. It looks serious.

“Hey, uh, pizza’s in here, you guys.” Jehan looks over his shoulder and gives a thumbs up. He says one more thing to Enjolras before standing and bouncing over to the kitchen.

He gives Jehan a questioning look and gets a small shrug in response. Well, that’s vague, Jehan. Grantaire makes a mental note to interrogate Jehan after Enjolras leaves.

They eat the pizza, continuing to laugh and joke. Grantaire likes seeing the way Enjolras and Jehan interact. Enjolras lets Jehan get away with so much more than Grantaire might have expected—Enjolras, in general, doesn’t really initiate much physical contact, as far as Grantaire’s observed. The only people Grantaire’s seen get into Enjolras’ personal space are Courfeyrac, whose hugs can’t be stopped by even the harshest person, and Jehan, tonight. Jehan has no problem leaning over to wipe pizza sauce off of Enjolras’ face, bumping his shoulder into him, manhandling him where he wants him.

Grantaire is always so hyperaware of Enjolras’ presence, and whenever they make contact, Grantaire thinks about it for hours. He’s almost jealous of Jehan’s casual intimacy with him, but it fades quickly when Grantaire thinks about the last few weeks—knees bumping under the table as they study, casual touches here and there, and tonight, Enjolras letting Grantaire move his fingers into place with nothing but a soft look.

Nonetheless, it’s fun to watch Jehan bully Enjolras into submission when Enjolras tries to argue that not having any hobbies is a perfectly normal thing for a workaholic like himself.

But, they run out of pizza eventually, and Jehan excuses himself to go “capitalize on the inspiration of finding a bust of Edgar Allen Poe in the cemetery.” Grantaire isn’t sure that Jehan is telling the truth so much as letting him be alone with Enjolras, because as Jehan leaves, he winks at Grantaire and makes what is probably meant to be a crude gesture.

Enjolras is standing in the kitchen, after putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, fidgeting. Grantaire thinks he understands—in theory, Enjolras has no reason to continue being here. But maybe he doesn’t want to leave.

Grantaire knows _he_ doesn’t really want Enjolras to leave. So, he offers, “I have some art in my room, if you wanna…”

Enjolras grins gratefully and nods. “Yes, I would very much like to see your art.”

Grantaire feels nerves buzzing in his chest, but he leads Enjolras to his room anyway. He hopes there’s no dirty underwear on the floor as he opens the door. Grantaire, in general, is quite neat. He has a storage unit filled to the brim with stuff he couldn’t bear to part with over the years, but his apartment is pretty sparse.

Enjolras looks around his room when he comes in and Grantaire looks at it again from a new perspective. His guitar leans against one wall, and there are bookshelves covering every wall. His only concession to not owning a lot of stuff is his book collection. Decades old and full of rare first editions, he’s never going to be able to justify leaving his books in a storage unit. He’s got art all over the walls, mostly posters and printed out copies of famous paintings that he likes, and some of his own stuff. His bed is made, but there’s a pile of books next to his bed that he’s working his way through. He’s never been good at reading one book at a time.

He goes to his desk, ignoring the bizarre vulnerability he’s feeling with Enjolras in his room. His sketchbook is open to a mostly finished drawing of Jehan, writing in a notebook with a pensive look on his face. Grantaire is pretty sure Enjolras only makes a few appearances in this one—he has some sketchbooks where every page is an in-depth study of Enjolras, from his nose to his hands to the ends of his hair.

He grabs the sketchbook and hands it to Enjolras, who takes it reverently. Grantaire wipes his hands on his jeans and watches Enjolras’ face carefully as he starts to flip through the book. Enjolras’ eyes flit across the pages, drinking in the art. He looks at the drawing of Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet in a cuddle pile, art of Feuilly making a silly face as if into a camera, Enjolras at the front of a room of indistinct people, making an impassioned speech. There’s Marius, blushing as Courfeyrac kisses the top of his head. Eponine with wide eyes holding a surprise bouquet of flowers from Cosette. Enjolras and Combeferre studying with their heads down—Enjolras’ has his tongue peeking out of his mouth, just a bit. All moments that Grantaire wanted to capture, like photographs.

Enjolras sits down on the bed and continues to look through the book, at all the snapshots of Grantaire’s life and their friends. He doesn’t say anything, and Grantaire tries to be patient. He can’t help but fidget, picking at his fingers. He doesn’t really show his art to people, if he can help it. It’s too honest. He feels like showing the wrong piece to someone would feel like ripping his chest open and letting them inspect the insides. Who knows what they’d find in there.

Enjolras gets to the end of the book, and then goes back to look at some a second time. He lingers on the ones of himself.

Finally, he looks up. Grantaire almost can’t handle the expression on his face—he looks ….in awe.

“Grantaire, these are amazing. I had no idea you were so talented. Thank you for letting me look at them.”

Grantaire swallows past the lump in his throat. “Thanks for wanting to see them, I guess.”

“Of course.”

Oh, god. A pang shoots its way through Grantaire’s chest. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face. It probably does.

Enjolras looks back down at the sketchbook, open to the drawing of himself giving a speech to a crowd of shadows. He gestures to it. “Too much work to draw everyone?”

“When you talk about the things you’re passionate about, you’re the only thing in the room,” Grantaire says without thinking.

“Oh,” Enjolras clearly wasn’t expecting that answer. The drawing sits on his lap, exposing Grantaire. He’s proud of that one—Enjolras is dynamic in it, he looks like he could move any minute. He can hear him arguing for the rights of the Forgotten when he looks at the drawing. And what he said is true—no one matters when Enjolras is talking, not to Grantaire.

Enjolras sighs and looks at his lap.

“I should go. It’s late.” He doesn’t sound pleased about this. Grantaire supposes it’s probably for the best. They didn’t actually do any studying today, after all. Grantaire does need to do that, at some point. But maybe this day with Enjolras will be enough to keep Grantaire from needing to sleep for a while. He certainly feels energized, down to his bones. Like he’s chugged a pack of energy drinks.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Grantaire doesn’t know if that’s ridiculous to offer or not, but he doesn’t really care, at this point. Besides, Grantaire will be safer than Enjolras because of the whole angel thing, so there’s a certain amount of logic to it. Not that Grantaire expects Enjolras to _like_ that logic, but.

“No, then you’d just have to walk twice as far. I’ll be okay, it’s a short walk. Thanks.” Enjolras gives Grantaire a small, private smile that feels like it’s just for him. Grantaire returns it, probably wearing all of his fondness on his face.

Enjolras grabs his stuff and Grantaire holds the door open for him to go. Enjolras pauses before leaving.

Before Grantaire knows it, Enjolras has enveloped him in a hug. How can he be taller He wraps his arms around Enjolras after he gets over his surprise.

“Thanks for teaching me how to knit,” Enjolras says into Grantaire’s shirt. It’s obvious that Enjolras means more than just the knitting.

“Anytime, Apollo,” Grantaire replies to Enjolras’ hair.

Enjolras lets go and steps back, waves, then turns to leave. Grantaire leaves the door open a minute longer, to watch Enjolras until he disappears around a corner.

He closes it and resists the urge to do the thing that women do in romcoms where they lean against the door and sigh dreamily after the love interest leaves. Barely.

Jehan’s door opens and his head comes out. “Is Enjolras gone?”

“Yeah, just left.”

Jehan opens his door more fully and comes out. “Did you guys make out?”

“No, we did not.” Grantaire doesn’t bother arguing further—he’d learned his lesson with the others already. “What were you saying to him earlier?”

He isn’t sure if he’s going to have to clarify, but Jehan seems to know what he’s talking about. He grins slyly.

“I just wanted to make sure his intentions were pure, you know, towards you. It was nothing.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “You didn’t. Jehan. Tell me you didn’t.”

Jehan’s eyes sparkle in amusement. “Okay, I didn’t.”

“You’re lying to me, Prouvaire.” Grantaire wags a finger at him accusingly and Jehan just laughs.

“I did what I was told, Officer!”

“Okay, but seriously, tell me everything?” Grantaire asks hopefully.

Jehan tilts his head to the side, considering. “I don’t think so. But I will say that I don’t think you’re in much danger of getting your heart broken. He said some very sweet stuff about you.”

Grantaire groans. “And you’re not going to tell me what? You’re killing me, Jehan. Look at me. I’m dying.” Grantaire pounds on his chest and wheezes.

Jehan holds up his hands. “Enjolras talked to me in confidence! And I’m not a gossip. That’s the rest of your jobs.”

“The worst part is that I can’t really argue with you. Well, thanks for sharing what little you did, I guess.” Grantaire hopes being gracious might convince Jehan to spill the rest, but no go.

“I try. I can’t believe he didn’t make a move, though. I am _genuinely_ shocked that he didn’t stick his tongue down your throat.” Jehan’s conversational tone has Grantaire turning red.

“Please stop talking about Enjolras like that,” Grantaire pleads for mercy. Jehan gets a mischievous look on his face.

“What, about Enjolras kissing you oh so tenderly on the mouth? Or about him tearing your clothes off in a passion? I bet he’s great in bed, with all the fire he brings to Les Amis.”

Grantaire covers his ears with his hands and talks loudly. “I’m going to bed now Jehan it was great seeing you but I really must go.” He walks past a laughing Jehan and into his room.

He shuts the door and takes a deep breath. His bedsheets are rumpled from sitting on them with Enjolras, and his sketchbook is just in the middle of his bed.

He picks it up and grabs a pencil. He settles in to start drawing.

A while later, he stops to look at it. There’s Enjolras, sitting with furrowed brows, holding knitting needles with his long fingers tangled in yarn.

Grantaire feels like he’s getting away with something as he looks at it.

Enjolras walks home, thinking about the conversation with Jehan he had while Grantaire was in the kitchen.

“Enjolras, what are you doing with Grantaire?” Jehan had asked the second that Grantaire was out of earshot.

Enjolras’ eyes had widened. “He’s teaching me to kni—”

“Not that. You’ve been spending more time with him, lately. Being nice. Grantaire cares a lot about you, and what you think about him, Enjolras. He’s more sensitive than you might think, especially when it comes to you. I want you to know that whatever this is for you, this is a lot for him. It’s special.” Jehan’s intensity was a little startling after his carefree demeanor all afternoon. Enjolras was forcibly reminded of the fact that Jehan can be intimidating when he wants to be. He’d gulped.

“Jehan, I know. I know. We didn’t get off on the best foot, but now that I’ve gotten to know him, Grantaire is…he’s amazing. He’s so knowledgeable, and funny. He’s got such interesting opinions on everything—on the world, on literature, on art—that even when I disagree with him on it all, I still want to hear what he has to say. He’s always catching me off guard in the best way possible. I don’t know what’s happening with us. But I assure you, I’m in just as deep as he is, if not more.” Enjolras had taken a deep breath. That…was a lot. He’s never put his heart out in the open like that before and he feels strangely raw. Jehan listened to his speech with dark eyes, and nodded when he finished.

“Good. I didn’t think you were, but I wanted to make sure. I don’t want Grantaire getting hurt.”

“Me either,” Enjolras admitted with a wry grin.

Grantaire peaked his head around the corner then and tells them to come get pizza. Enjolras took a moment to steady himself, to get his emotions in order so Grantaire wouldn’t see everything he just said to Jehan on his face.

Enjolras thinks he managed it. They ate their pizza as if nothing had happened.

But then Enjolras got to see inside Grantaire’s room, and then his sketchbook. Enjolras, walking into Grantaire’s room, had been immediately struck with the, well, _Grantaire-_ ness of it all. He hadn’t thought about where Grantaire would live, but if he had, it would have been exactly what it was. The books, the art, the everything.

And the sketchbook…wow. Enjolras is new to appreciating art—he recalls Grantaire explaining to him that art doesn’t have to make sense as long as it makes you feel something. That you can like things without understanding them, if you just like it. Grantaire’s art wasn’t like that. It wasn’t hard for Enjolras to look at it and know what Grantaire was thinking. Grantaire was ridiculously talented—Enjolras can’t believe that he isn’t in museums, somewhere. Or a gallery. Wherever art goes.

The drawings of their friends were amazing—Grantaire captured all of their essences so well, it was like they were there. He felt the love between them all, and the love Grantaire has for them, with every pencil stroke.

But the drawings that Grantaire had done of him… Enjolras still doesn’t know what to say about them. The way that Grantaire sees him is daunting. He doesn’t know if he can live up to the ideal that Grantaire has in his head. He wants to, though.

_“The only person in the room_ ,” Grantaire had said. Enjolras thinks he knows the feeling. When Grantaire gets going on one of his passions, Enjolras could listen to him forever. He’s so animated that Enjolras can’t believe he thought he was seeing the whole picture before.

As he walks, Enjolras returns to what happened before Jehan got home. Or rather, what almost happened. It seems that there’s some force wanting them to wait. Enjolras knows it’s going to happen eventually, but he wants it now. He’s done waiting.

_Next time_ , Enjolras promises himself. _Next time_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have some TOOTH-ROTTING fluff, a few days early
> 
> thanks so much for comments n kudos!!! they're keeping me alive in these trying times, bless u all <3

Enjolras wakes up in a cold sweat at six am. Today’s the day—it’s time for his Guardian Angels in Literature exam.

Despite how much help Grantaire has been over the semester, and how much more comfortable Enjolras feels now than he did, he still feels a clamminess in his hands when he thinks about writing an essay in a timed environment. It’s not something he’s had to do very often, and while his essays have been getting okay grades with Grantaire’s edits, he knows he has to do well on this exam to keep up his GPA. That’s a lot of pressure.

He’s not going to be able to fall back asleep. He makes coffee, sits at the kitchen table, and stares blankly at his notes until it’s time to go.

He’s early, as usual. For once, he considers joining his classmates in their commiseration about the course and how much it sucked. He’s always had disdain for the practice. _Why are you here if you hate it?_ He would think to himself. _If you studied, you’re going to be fine_.

Now he knows—sometimes it doesn’t matter how prepared you are. Still, he decides against it; he doesn’t recognize most of them, despite sitting in the back the entire semester. He must’ve been more distracted by Grantaire’s presence than he thought. He slides down the wall to wait.

Enjolras’ energy is starting to wane, and he doesn’t realize he’s dozing until a voice startles him awake.

“How goes it, Apollo? Gonna blow us all out of the water with your literary analysis?” Grantaire is way too jovial for this early in the morning, plopping himself down next to Enjolras.

“I’m going to fail, and I’m trying to accept that fact now so I won’t be disappointed later,” Enjolras states.

Grantaire bumps his shoulder with his own. “There’s no way you can fail the class with the work you’ve already done. You barely even need to be here.”

This time, Enjolras does glare at him. “Not helping, R.”

Grantaire’s face softens. “Sorry. But seriously, you’re going to be great. You’ve got a brain for this, trust me. You’re starting to sound like me, Apollo, and nobody wants a second cynic.” Grantaire gets self-deprecating near the end there. Enjolras frowns.

“You’re not a cynic, you’re a skeptic. There’s a difference and it’s important. I wouldn’t want to be around you if you were just cynical. A cynic has already decided that things aren’t worth changing, while a skeptic can still be convinced.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows go up. “See? That was close reading right there. You’re going to do great.”

“Okay. I’ll believe you. Thanks, Grantaire.”

“Anytime, Apollo.”

Enjolras twists his mouth up. “Don’t call me that, asshole.”

“Oh, I’m an asshole now, am I? Jeez, I’m sorry, Apollo. No need to get aggressive.”

Enjolras shoves him.

In talking with Grantaire, Enjolras lost track of time, and the exam proctors come out to start letting people in. Show time.

Enjolras walks out of the exam room, shaking his hand out, sore from all the writing he just did.

He did it. He finished Guardian Angels in Literature. And he even thinks he did well. He didn’t have time to be anxious, once it started—he just wrote.

And now it’s over. There’s still some time left, even, so he walks out of the quiet room into an empty hallway. Well, almost empty.

Enjolras _could_ blame the jump in his chest on the relief of being done a stressful exam, but he won’t.

“Hey, Apollo! Look at you. You did it!” Grantaire gives him a high five, talking in a hushed voice so they won’t disturb the people still writing.

“I did it! You did it! We did it!” Enjolras feels the post-exam euphoria setting in as he says it. He laughs, wild.

“We did. What do you want to do now?” Grantaire’s grin matches Enjolras’, his energy contagious.

“Let’s do something stupid.” Enjolras runs his hand through hair

Grantaire opens his mouth, then closes it. Offers, hesitantly, “Does graffiti work?”

Enjolras starts. “Do you have… stuff for that?”

“Yes?” Grantaire rubs the back of his neck.

Enjolras takes that in, processes. “Well then. Okay, let’s do it.” He pauses. “How?”

Grantaire laughs, thin and relieved. “I have a spot in mind. We can talk about it on the way.”

Graffiti. Enjolras supposes it’s not that surprising, but he’s still a little shocked. Enjolras tries to summon an image, fails. There was a dick graffitied onto the Musain a few months ago and Enjolras absurdly imagines that it was Grantaire’s doing.

Grantaire leads Enjolras to his apartment and tells him to wait before coming out with a duffle bag that clunks conspicuously.

“You sure about this?”

“Yeah. I have an idea, actually.” Enjolras hopes Grantaire likes it. Grantaire grins, his hair disheveled from the wind on their walk over here.

“I hope I can pull it off for you, then, Apollo.”

Enjolras tells Grantaire his idea as Grantaire takes them to where he wants to spray paint. Grantaire loves it, adds on to it, makes it better. By the time they get there, a secluded spot in an alley, Grantaire has said that if it turns out, he’ll recreate it over the city.

“We don’t really want to get caught spray painting government buildings in broad daylight, though, so let’s start here, okay?” Grantaire drops his bag and opens it up to grab the first bottle. Enjolras nods. “Keep an eye out, yeah? We should be alright, but just in case. Don’t want our fearless leader getting arrested, do we?” Grantaire jokes, pulling a mask over his mouth.

Enjolras sends him a pointed look. “We don’t want you getting arrested, either. Do you even have ID?”

Grantaire laughs as he shakes the spray paint. “I do, thank you very much. I even have a social security number.”

“You’re going to tell me that story later.”

Enjolras hops up on a ledge on the building opposite the one Grantaire is tagging. He should probably at least pretend to keep watch, but Grantaire said they would be fine and Enjolras would much rather watch Grantaire work.

Grantaire starts off with indistinct shapes, and Enjolras, despite knowing what the final product should be, has no idea how it’s going to come together. He’s using metallic colours and the fresh paint stands out against all the older art already covering the wall. As Grantaire works, he keeps a running commentary on what he’s doing and Enjolras offers suggestions, trying to make him laugh. It works more often than not, and Enjolras feels like all his other accomplishments pale in comparison.

Finally, Grantaire steps back from the wall and pulls his mask off to admire his work. It’s a pair of wings, big enough to be human sized—or angel sized. But instead of the feathery white wings that are associated with the guardian angels—incorrectly, according to Grantaire, but still—the wings are mechanical. Human made, as they’d discussed. They’re metallic colours, with gears and metal feathers. They’re messy and imperfect and beautiful, all harsh lines and jagged edges. There is no question about what these are. Grantaire had described them to Enjolras when they were planning it, but they turned out better than Enjolras imagined. There he goes, underestimating Grantaire again.

“What do you think?” Grantaire asked, glancing at Enjolras. Enjolras hops off his ledge, moves to get a better look.

“They’re perfect.”

Grantaire moves towards Enjolras. He holds out a can of spray paint, and Enjolras looks at him questioningly.

“It was your idea. You have decent handwriting, right? You should finish it.” Enjolras takes the can. He likes the idea, of it being truly collaborative.

“Okay, but you’re going to have to tell me what to do, here.”

Grantaire shows Enjolras how to do it, lets him paint the ground a bit to get a feel for it. Then Enjolras gets to work.

He steps back when he’s done. It’s sloppy, and the paint is dripping, but the words are clear. In black, above the wings, it says

NOT FORGOTTEN, FREED.

“Shit, Apollo.” Grantaire murmurs from behind him. Enjolras is inclined to agree.

Grantaire has his phone out, and he’s taking a photo.

“Do you want… can I take one of you with it?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras considers it. “Only if I can take one with you, afterwards.”

It feels tacky to stand so the wings look like they’re coming from his body, but Enjolras can’t resist. Grantaire does the same; Enjolras bites his cheek as he snaps the photo.

The post exam feel has faded into something else. Enjolras feels invincible. Like anything can happen.

He feels free.

Grantaire packs up the spray paint in his duffle bag—Enjolras teases him about that, because, really? He’s just swung it over his shoulder when there’s shouting from one end of the alley. Enjolras can barely make it out, but it sounds a lot like, “Hey, you!” He looks to Grantaire for guidance, eyes wide.

“Run?” Grantaire mouths, shrugging. It’s as good a plan as any.

They take off to the other side of the alleyway. Enjolras bets that’s part of the reason Grantaire picked this spot—more than one exit.

They run as fast as they can, before Enjolras realizes no one is actually following them. He tugs on Grantaire to get him to stop, and falls against him, breathless and laughing. Grantaire is steady, though he’s also breathing hard from the run, and he wraps his arms around Enjolras to keep him upright.

“Do you do that a lot?” Enjolras asks once he has his breath back. He steps back from Grantaire.

“What, deface public property, or run from maybe-cops?” Grantaire laughs.

“Almost get caught defacing public property,” Enjolras clarifies.

Grantaire shrugs. “I usually have a pretty good sense for that stuff, you know, with the whole angel thing. I haven’t been caught yet.”

Enjolras, for the first time in a while, wonders what it’s like to have a guardian angel. He’d imagined it plenty while he grew up—feeling like he could go anywhere, and do anything, and come out the other end okay. It lessened as he started to learn how to take care of himself; he learned how to feel confident in his own ability to keep himself safe and alive, without any extra help. He knows it’s what made him who he is today, that if he had an angel on his back, his whole life would have been different.

He thinks about the amount of times Grantaire has steadied him, kept his head on straight, or steered him in the right direction. Maybe he does have an angel, after all. Enjolras prefers this arrangement than some distant figure watching his life unfold like a movie.

“Want to go somewhere?” Enjolras blurts out.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Vague, Apollo. But I’d follow you anywhere, so lead the way.” Grantaire gestures Enjolras in front of him.

Enjolras starts walking, and Grantaire falls into step. Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand without looking at him. He sees Grantaire’s head turn sharply to look at him in his peripheral vision. He stares resolutely ahead. After a moment, Grantaire intertwines their fingers and Enjolras bites down on his cheek to keep his wild grin in check.

They end up at Enjolras apartment, because Enjolras wasn’t paying attention and that’s where his feet led them. He unlocks the door, his hands steady.

He knows Combeferre plans to be on campus studying all day. The knowledge that he now has Grantaire alone in his apartment settles into Enjolras chest.

There’s a quiet tension between them as they go inside. Anything can happen, but Enjolras knows what he’s going to do.

“Did you want to watch a movie or—” Grantaire stops talking as Enjolras steps closer to him. Enjolras kisses him.

Like when Enjolras grabbed his hand, Grantaire doesn’t respond immediately. Distantly, Enjolras wonders how Grantaire didn’t see this coming. He thought he was being obvious.

Grantaire finally kisses Enjolras back and—oh, his hand is in Enjolras’ hair and he’s deepening the kiss and—

Enjolras stops keeping track of what’s going on. He just experiences it.

After an indeterminate amount of time, they part. Not far—Grantaire hands rest on Enjolras waist, keeping him close.

“Hey, Apollo,” Grantaire murmurs through a grin that goes from ear to ear.

“Hey,” Enjolras replies, giddy.

“Should we go further inside?” 

Enjolras looks at his surroundings. They’re entwined in the entryway. “Oh. Yeah, probably.”

Grantaire gives Enjolras one more quick kiss before letting him go. Well, not completely—he keeps Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras doesn’t even care that Grantaire is basically leading him around his own apartment. He just follows obediently as Grantaire takes them to the couch.

“Not to be a buzzkill, but uh—should we talk about this?” Grantaire says once they sit on the couch. Enjolras tilts his head to the side.

“Can we make out now, talk later?”

“Yeah, okay, sounds good to me.”

Enjolras hasn’t had much experience with kissing, or dating in general. He’s had a few clumsy encounters, born out of curiosity. He was younger, and even worse at understanding people than he is now. They never lasted long, and were generally unsatisfying. He figured he had better uses for his time, eventually, and stopped pursuing anything of that nature.

That is to say, Enjolras is wholly unprepared for Grantaire. Enjolras felt every kiss, every touch, throughout his entire body, all the way down to his toes. Enjolras thinks he understands, now.

Grantaire….Grantaire holds Enjolras’ face in his hands like delicate china. Like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and if he moves too harshly he’ll shatter.

Enjolras, always a bit impatient, takes Grantaire’s hands off his face and climbs on his lap instead. Enjolras is not so easily breakable and Grantaire is going to have to get used to that.

Grantaire seems to pick up on that, and his hands end up on Enjolras hips instead. Much better.

Enjolras gets his hands in Grantaire’s mess of hair—it’s coarse and thick and feels so much better than Enjolras imagined it would. He pulls it a little, and Grantaire groans, arching his head back. Enjolras takes the opportunity to kiss down Grantaire’s neck and—wow, Grantaire jumps when Enjolras bites down. He does it again, until there’s a slick purple mark.

“Sorry.” Enjolras isn’t sure he means that. He touches the mark gently with his finger and Grantaire shivers.

“Don’t be,” Grantaire responds and his voice is strained. Enjolras likes it.

Enough time passes that Combeferre is in danger of coming home and interrupting them. Enjolras, however reluctantly, gets off Grantaire—to which Grantaire whines and makes grabby hands at Enjolras. He grins.

“Combeferre’s going to be home soon. Besides, I’m getting hungry. Do you want some food?” Enjolras says as casually as he can, looking at Grantaire like that. He’s sure he doesn’t look much better.

Grantaire sighs deeply, then pulls out his phone. “As tempting as that is, I should probably go. I still have exams to study for, after all.” Grantaire pauses. “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

Enjolras abandons the pretense of being unaffected. “Yes, please. That was my last exam, so I’m off for the summer. I just have the protest to organize.”

Grantaire groans. “Don’t brag about it, Apollo, I’m suffering over here.”

Enjolras laughs, and kisses him sweetly. As he pulls back, he whispers, “Don’t call me that,” in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire barks in laughter. “Sorry.”

Enjolras leans against a wall to watch Grantaire as he gets up to go. He lets his eyes unabashedly follow Grantaire’s figure, and a slow smirk grows on his face. Grantaire catches him looking.

“What?” He asks, amused.

“Nothing,” Enjolras replies, his grin full now.

“Okay, well, I’m leaving now.” Grantaire puts his hand on the door.

“Bye, Grantaire.”

“Bye, Enjolras.” Grantaire looks at him for one more second, then opens the door to leave.

Once Grantaire has gone, Enjolras takes a deep breath. He feels warm all over; jittery.

For lack of anything better to do, he jumps in the shower. Maybe it’ll steady him—right now he feels like if he breathes in too deeply, he’ll start floating. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation, just—intense.

He takes his time, washing everything twice before getting out. By the time he’s done toweling off his hair, he feels thoroughly grounded. He still finds himself with a euphoric smile whenever he isn’t paying attention, though.

He comes out of the bathroom, dressed in comfy sweats, and Combeferre’s coming in the door.

“Hey, how was the studying?” Enjolras asks, heading to the kitchen.

“Pretty good, I’d say. I think I’ll be ready for tomorrow. How did your exam go? You had English this morning, right?” Combeferre sheds his coat and shoes before following Enjolras into the kitchen, plopping himself and his backpack down at the table.

“I think it went pretty well, honestly. I’m not worried about it, my GPA is going to be fine.” Enjolras finds some leftover pizza in the fridge and he sticks it in the microwave.

“You earned it, you worked hard this semester.”

“Thanks, Combeferre.”

“What did you do for the rest of the day? Also—is there any more of that?”

Enjolras sighs and hands over the pizza he just heated up, going back to the fridge to get the rest. How to answer that? Part of him wants to keep it secret, have it a private day between him and Grantaire. The rest of him wants to scream it from the top of his lungs, _I kissed Grantaire!_

“After the exam, Grantaire and I hung out.”

“Hung out? Did you play chess?” Combeferre raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, we may have done some graffiti? Then we made out.”

Enjolras is pretty satisfied to see Combeferre be taken aback.

“I didn’t see _that_ coming. Graffiti? Of what? Where? Did you get caught?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, we were fine. It was downtown somewhere, in an alley. Do you want to see it?”

Combeferre nods, so Enjolras pulls up the photos he took. Combeferre takes the phone and looks at it for a moment, then up at Enjolras. “Holy shit. Was that your idea?”

“Kind of. The wings were Grantaire’s idea, and obviously he’s the one who made them happen. That’s my handwriting, though.”

“ _Not Forgotten, Freed_ … that’s pretty good, Enj.”

“You think so?” Enjolras feels weirdly bare. He’s used to sharing his ideas, especially with Combeferre, but they’re usually more practical than this.

“Yeah, I’m going to text Jehan about this, actually. I think he has a button maker. We should bring that up at our next meeting, maybe it can be the slogan for the protest.” Combeferre hands Enjolras his phone back, then pulls out his own. Presumably to text Jehan. He stops in the middle of typing.

“Wait. You said you made out with Grantaire?”

Enjolras bites down on his smile. “Yeah.”

“Good for you, Enjolras. I hope this goes well for you, and Grantaire. You two complement each other well.”

“I hope so, too.” Enjolras purses his lips. “I think this was inevitable. That, or we’d have killed each other.”

Combeferre smirks. “I won’t argue with you there.”

Enjolras’ bones feel like jelly. He’s been holding on to this for so long, this tension between him and Grantaire winding and winding until he was wound so taut, he never fully relaxed. And now, the ropes been cut.

Grantaire is goddamn fucking in love with Enjolras. He thought he knew that, but fucking hell Grantaire loves him. He loves him.

When he met Enjolras, Grantaire felt like there was a hook in him with a string attaching him to Enjolras—anytime Enjolras moved away, it dug in. When he stepped closer, there was some relief to the open wound. But it never lasted, and Grantaire always got hurt again.

On his darkest nights, Grantaire would see his own future—pathetically following Enjolras around, as close as Enjolras would let him, for the rest of Enjolras’ life. He told himself he’d leave if Enjolras asked him to, but even he isn’t sure if he’d be able to. Then again, he has trouble saying no to Enjolras, so maybe he’d have done it anyway.

He never, even in his wildest fantasies, imagined this—getting to know him, spending time with him, making him laugh instead of yell, working with him instead of fighting him. Grantaire is amazed that things worked out this way.

And now, kissing, apparently. Grantaire isn’t really sure how he gets home—he spent the entire walk in the clouds, thinking about Enjolras. He knew that there was a possibility that Enjolras was interested in him, but that did nothing to prepare him for the reality of Enjolras on his lap, moaning into his mouth. Of Enjolras, holding his hand. Of _Enjolras_ , period.

Grantaire doesn’t sleep that night—he doesn’t need to. He finds himself energized and able to study through to dawn, with no signs of crashing. Enjolras—better than coffee.

Since he was so productive through the night—productive being the debatable word, considering how often he got distracted by thoughts of “what would Enjolras think about this piece?” “would he like the Romantics?” “What’s he doing right now?”—he figures he’s okay to take a break around 6am.

_Do you want to get breakfast_ , he texts Enjolras. He sends it, then decides, fuck it. _To be clear, I mean like a date. This is me asking you on a date._ He sends that. Then, _at 6am. Okay, I realize its super early just let me know when you get up_.

Grantaire looks at the stream of one-sided messages and sighs. He puts his phone away, trying to remind himself that Enjolras clearly likes him, he’s not going to scare him away by being too talkative. That’s basically his whole personality. If Enjolras doesn’t like it, then that’s Enjolras’ problem.

Grantaire’s pep talk doesn’t do much but leave a sour taste in his mouth. He decides to make some coffee while he waits.

It’s a while. At 8am, Grantaire’s phone buzzes.

_Want to go to that breakfast place near campus? I’ll pay._

Grantaire realizes he’s staring at his phone with a dopey grin on his face and that he should probably be like, putting pants on. He sends a confirmation back before going to get ready. He puts way too much thought into his outfit, considering he owns exclusively jeans and sweatshirts.

He gets there early. He goes in the restaurant expecting to get a table and wait until Enjolras arrives, but he sees Enjolras already sitting in the back. Grantaire feels his stomach drop like he’s on a roller coaster when Enjolras catches sight of him and lights up. How is Grantaire the one making that happen? He’s always thought of Enjolras as the sun—amazing and beautiful, but hard to look at straight on—but if he was intense before, he’s absolutely vibrant now.

“Hello, Apollo,” Grantaire says as he approaches. He has to—what else is he supposed to call someone so radiant? Enjolras thinks of the bad things about Apollo—his cruelty, his stubbornness. Enjolras doesn’t want to be worshipped, he’s made that clear. Grantaire thinks he’s come a long way in that regard, of seeing Enjolras as a person, an equal. It doesn’t change the fact that Enjolras is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Enjolras gets up before Grantaire can sit down and wraps him in a hug.

“Hi,” Enjolras responds after stepping back, almost sheepish.

They sit.

“How was the rest of your evening?” Enjolras moves his fork and knife set a millimeter. “Did you get your work done? You were up pretty early.”

Grantaire watches Enjolras fidget with amusement. “I did, yeah. I didn’t sleep, actually. Happens sometimes, with the whole—” Grantaire remembers they’re in public before he finishes his sentence, and waves his hands around his head vaguely in the idea halo—“you know, thing.”

Enjolras seems alarmed. “You don’t need to sleep sometimes? How does that work?”

Grantaire shrugs, not sure how to say it without sounding sappy as hell. “Uh, I never used to sleep? But now I do, and I get tired when I don’t. The only times I don’t need to sleep are when I’m feeling particularly energized, which I don’t really control.” A pause. “It’s been happening more often lately, whenever we hang out.” Grantaire looks over Enjolras’ shoulder instead of facing him head on when he admits that. He feels like it’s kind of creepy, but it’s not like Grantaire’s doing it on purpose. If he’d tried to sleep last night, he would have just tossed and turned and then felt like shit today. It was much better to just stay up, he’s learned, when he has that restless energy.

Enjolras doesn’t immediately say anything, so Grantaire risks a glance at him. He’s staring at Grantaire, considering.

“I can’t tell if that’s sweet or weird.”

“Me either,” Grantaire laughs.

Their date proceeds from there.

Grantaire tells Enjolras about the art history paper he has to write before his semester is done—explaining his ideas and complains that it’s not coming together. Enjolras, surprisingly, asks if he can see the painting the paper is about, so Grantaire pulls it up on his phone.

“What about this part?” Enjolras points out a small detail in the painting that Grantaire hadn’t considered before. They talk it out and Grantaire actually writes some notes on his phone because “wow, Enjolras, you might’ve just gotten me un-stuck there.”

“I had to repay the favor sometime,” Enjolras replies, eyes twinkling.

“Thank you, nonetheless.” He steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Now that I’ve got some great ideas for a paper, what did you do with your evening?” Grantaire, having been on dates before, knows it’s not ideal to talk so much about himself. But that feels less important with Enjolras.

“I told Combeferre about our criminal activities yesterday. He thinks we should make the design into buttons and shirts and stuff. Make it the symbol of the rally.”

Grantaire is taken aback. “Really? That’s kind of a great idea. I’d want to simplify the design before we went and mass produced it, but damn.” He feels _something_ about the idea of the symbol of their revolution being something that he and Enjolras made, together.

“Would you want to make the finalized version of it? I know you’re busy right now, and we’d need it soon. But I’d like if you were able to do it, instead of getting someone else. If you have the time.”

Grantaire cracks a smile. “What is this, a date, or a business meeting?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. He reaches out to put his hand on Grantaire’s arm. Then says imploringly into Grantaire’s eyes, “Why can’t it be both, babe?”

Grantaire laughs in surprise, drawing the eyes of the other patrons. He mouths “whoops” at Enjolras, who snickers.

Their food arrives, putting a stop to their shenanigans. As they eat, they talk about their plans for the summer, their friends, their classes. It’s nice.

They bicker over who’s going to pay. Enjolras wins. Grantaire, foiled again, leaves a generous tip.

They walk outside, and Grantaire, emboldened by the last twenty-four hours, grabs Enjolras hands. Enjolras looks over at him and smiles and Grantaire feels like he could rule the world.

“Do you have anywhere to be?” Enjolras asks as they walk in a random direction.

“Not till one.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Grantaire blinks.

“Uh, green?”

“You don’t know?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“No, it’s definitely green. I’m just confused. Are we playing twenty questions and I missed it?”

Enjolras hums. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not even how the game goes,” Grantaire argues, even though he’s not like, against it.

Enjolras shrugs. “Fuck the rules. We can make our own.”

Grantaire grins, fond. “Of course you feel that way. Sure, let’s play twenty questions. What’s _your_ favourite colour?”

“Red. Favourite food?”

“Pancakes. Favourite movie?”

“Pancakes?” Enjolras breaks their momentum.

“Yeah, what’s so weird about pancakes? They’re very customizable, you know.”

“How do you eat them?”

“Do you not want to answer my question? And I don’t know, I like blueberries and chocolate chips. Bananas are always a solid ingredient, whether in the pancake or on top of it. Sometimes I spring for whipped cream, but that can be too sweet in the morning. Always with real maple syrup, of course.”

Enjolras nods to himself slowly, like he’s trying to remember all that. Grantaire narrows his eyes at him in suspicion but doesn’t question him further.

“So. Favourite movie.” Grantaire prompts one last time when it seems Enjolras still isn’t going to volunteer the information. He looks sheepish.

“I don’t really watch movies. I don’t have a favourite.”

Grantaire, having been alive before the invention of video, stops. Enjolras stops with him. Grantaire counts to ten in his head before speaking. “Well, I hope you’re ready for a crash course in film.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says agreeably. They start walking again. “What’s your favourite book?”

Grantaire clutches at fake pearls. “Oh, don’t make me choose between my children like this. Even a top ten list would be impossible. You have to be more specific, if you want me to narrow it down.”

“Favourite classic, then?”

Grantaire groans. “I mean, that’s still hard. The Great Gatsby, maybe. I always come back to that one.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“Well, it’s got a lot of homoerotic subtext, let me tell you.”

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand with a laugh. They’re walking around a park now; it’s good to be out in the sun—the real sun—after the long winter. A light breeze is playing with Enjolras hair and it’d be more distracting if they were sitting, but as it is, it keeps catching Grantaire’s eye.

“Why don’t you tell people that you don’t have an angel?” Grantaire is having trouble coming up with easy questions in lieu of the ones he really wants to ask, so he just gives in. If Enjolras doesn’t want to answer, he won’t.

“I don’t know how to answer this without sounding like a massive hypocrite,” Enjolras sighs.

“I mean, obviously you don’t have to share if you don’t want to. But I’m not going to judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Come on, there’s not much you could do at this point that would stop my admiration,” Grantaire says in an exaggerated voice, as if that hides the truth of what he’s saying.

Enjolras adjusts his grip on Grantaire’s hand. Both of their hands are getting a little warm, but Grantaire sure won’t be the one to let go—it seems like Enjolras isn’t too inclined to, either.

“I spent most of my childhood unable to hide it. People knew, just by looking at me, that I was Forgotten. That caused me a lot of grief, on top of the general shittiness of living in this world without an angel, when so much of society expects you to have one. As I got older and started being able to hide it, it almost wasn’t a choice. I wasn’t immediately dismissed. It’s like my ideas had more weight when people didn’t know. And when I started Les Amis…I don’t know. I’ve always been a private person. It was easier to advocate for the Forgotten without admitting that I was one of them. I didn’t have to show more of myself than I was willing to the public. Maybe that was cowardly of me, but I was a different person then.” Enjolras looks to the sky. “Besides, I didn’t want to make the decision to be publicly Forgotten lightly. It’s not like there are any laws in place to stop people from discriminating against me for that. It was scary to think that I wouldn’t be able to get a job because people could just look me up and find that out and think I’ll be an incompetent employee. Or not renting to me, or not letting me into University, or—you get the point. I had to take personal safety into account.”

Grantaire, at the reminder of how terrible the system is, feels fire in his veins. “That’s fucking bullshit, that you have to think like that.”

Enjolras looks amused. “It is.”

“What?”

Enjolras shrugs, still with a crooked smile on his face. “You being outraged at the system. I like it.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

“Did everyone else know when I found out, or was that how they found out too?” Grantaire hopes his convoluted question makes sense. He doesn’t want to overtly reference their fight if he doesn’t have to. Especially after Enjolras told Grantaire all the very real and valid reasons that he didn’t want people to know he’s Forgotten.

Enjolras doesn’t seem bothered, only hums before answering.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew, because they knew me before I was able to hide it. Jehan knew, somehow, the second he met me, though I’m still not sure how. I think he might be a little psychic, to be honest. But other than that, I don’t think anyone else knew. It wasn’t personal, really. I just wanted to live a little longer in someone else’s shoes. I’m sure I would have said something, at least to Les Amis, eventually…”

Grantaire lets him think about things. They keep walking. He distantly hopes that Enjolras knows where they are, because as he looks at their surroundings, he realizes that he has no clue.

“My turn,” Enjolras breaks the silence.

Grantaire gestures for him to proceed.

“Do you miss being an angel?”

“Oof, straight to the point, huh?” Grantaire jokes. Enjolras just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He sighs. “Yes and no. I miss being able to help. But it’s so much better being human, instead of this removed being that yes, gets to help in a much more direct and visceral way, but it was distant. Here, I can still help people, but it’s feels like more now. Humans have to _decide_ to help each other. It wasn’t my choice when I was an angel, you know?”

“What a pair we are,” Enjolras muses. Grantaire laughs without much humour.

“Trust me, the irony is not lost on me.” The Forgotten and the Angel. They sound like a fairy tale, or a legend told for eons. 

“Can we sit?” Enjolras asks, pointing to a nice secluded tree. They rest against the tree, between its exposed roots, their shoulders touching. It’s Grantaire’s turn to ask a question.

“I know I was a bit…abrasive, when we met. When did you change your opinion of me?” Grantaire doesn’t like to think of himself as insecure. But Enjolras had never hidden his dislike of Grantaire, and as nice as his change of heart is, he doesn’t entirely trust it.

Enjolras smiles, just a little, then puts more space between them to look at Grantaire better, his head tilted to the side.

“I don’t know, honestly. Talking to you about literature and art was important. You’re so knowledgeable about these things I know nothing about, and you have so much passion for them that it’s impossible not to respect it. But I think there’s always been something there, between us. No one has ever gotten under my skin like you did—and still do. That wasn’t always a good thing, but. I think if things went a little differently, our first kiss might have been a bit more… explosive. Don’t you?”

Grantaire grins at his implication. “I think I prefer this. I don’t think it would’ve ended well for me if we… well. I’m glad you were put into that class with me, Apollo.” Grantaire can’t help the heartache that slips into his words.

“Thanks for being so anti-social that no one wanted to sit next to you in that first lecture.”

Grantaire squints, the storm clearing from his face. “Are you implying that you wouldn’t have talked to me in that class if you hadn’t sat next to me in that first lecture? You’re full of shit, and you know it. You were desperate for my amazing tutoring skills.”

Enjolras shrugs, grinning. “Maybe, maybe not. Who’s to say?”

And well, Grantaire just has to kiss him for that.

Enjolras, keen to take his turn in the game of questions, doesn’t let Grantaire distract him for long.

“You said that you never hated me, even when we were not on good terms. What did you think of me?” Enjolras says with more hesitation than Grantaire has come to expect from him. Grantaire breaths out slowly as he thinks his answer through, knowing that it’s important.

“I thought you were going to change the world if it killed you. I also thought that the world would kill you before it would let itself be changed.”

“And now?” Enjolras prompts.

Grantaire looks at him. Because they’re sitting so close, that puts their faces entirely too close together for Grantaire’s ability to concentrate, but he rallies.

“I really hope I turn out to be wrong.”

“You will.” Enjolras stares steadfastly at Grantaire. “I have to believe I can do it. Things have to change. There is no other option.”

Grantaire smiles sadly. “Like I said, I hope I’m wrong. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Grantaire isn’t sure who closes the distance, only that they’re sharing a sweet, almost sad kiss. Grantaire feels an almost unpleasant yanking on his heart, like someone’s reached inside his chest and gripped it a little too tightly. When they pull apart, Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras.

“So, should we talk about what we’re doing?” Grantaire brings up, again. He’d like some clear and obvious communication, even if Enjolras seems allergic to it. Especially since he suspects that he’s the one who’ll be hurt, when—if—this goes badly.

“We’re kissing under a tree.”

“While on a date. Does this mean we are dating?” Grantaire figures that if Enjolras wants to play coy, Grantaire should just jump right in with all the bluntness he can muster.

Enjolras bites his lip. “I think it means whatever we want it to mean.”

“And what do you want it to mean?” Grantaire presses.

“What do _you_ want it to mean?”

“I asked you first!”

“I asked you second!”

Grantaire sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Look, Enjolras. I like you. A lot. If that wasn’t so obvious that you could see it from space, I mean.” Grantaire peaks at Enjolras to see his reaction. His face is contorting in ways that Grantaire is having trouble interpreting. Grantaire feels anxiety rising up in him at the thought that he’s about to be rejected, even after everything, and oh god—

Enjolras clearly sees that thought process on Grantaire’s face, because his own face lights up in alarm. He puts his hand on Grantaire’s arm as if to keep him from leaving

“No, no—I like you, too, Grantaire. I do. I just. I don’t know how to live up to the idea of me you have in your head. I’m not Apollo, I’m not the fearless leader of a revolution. I’m just a guy. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

They stare at each other a moment, painfully earnest and open. Grantaire sighs and looks down at their hands. He picks up Enjolras’ hand, and keeps his eyes trained on it as he plays with it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to put all my shit on you. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think you could disappoint me if you tried. Which probably isn’t helping but—I think I’ve seen more of Enjolras the human in the past few months than I did the two years before that. I think I’ve always kind of loved you, but getting to know you for _real_ has been so amazing. You’ve surpassed all my expectations and made me realize that I loved the idea of you, not the actual person you are. Because I didn’t _know_ you. And I had no idea that you were so much better than the idea of you that I had in my head. So, I’m sorry if that’s still a lot of pressure. But I don’t think the things I’m feeling are going to go away if you don’t live up to whatever dumb expectations I had from you before I knew anything about you.” Grantaire realizes he kind of just told Enjolras he loved him literally on their first date and blanches. He opens his mouth to backtrack, but then decides, fuck it. This may be their first date, but this has been happening for months.

Grantaire finally looks up at Enjolras again, who tries to kiss him too fast, and they bump noses. They both start laughing, even as Grantaire holds his nose which hurts more than he’ll admit. Once the pain simmers down, Grantaire leans in slower this time and Enjolras meets him halfway.

Grantaire can feel Enjolras smiling as they kiss.

“Do you know how to get home from here?” Grantaire eventually asks.

Enjolras looks alarmed. “I thought you knew?”

Thankfully, they live in the age of having a GPS in your pocket and they manage to find their way home with a minimal amount of bickering. Grantaire goes to his meeting at one, and Enjolras goes home.

It’s a good thing Enjolras is done for the term—his concentration is terrible. He’s trying to work on his speech for the protest, which is coming up soon, but his thoughts won’t stop drifting to Grantaire. His hands, his lips, his hair. The things he said this afternoon are playing on a constant loop in Enjolras’ head.

After one too many failed attempts to concentrate, Enjolras huffs in frustration and leans back in his desk chair. This isn’t going anywhere.

He turns back to his laptop and closes his speech.

When he puts _The Great Gatsby_ into the search engine, he finds a variety of free versions available for download. He clicks on one and brings his laptop closer to himself, so he can lean back more comfortably in his chair.

_In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since._

_" Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, " just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://amateurbunburyist.tumblr.com/)


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